


Hunted

by CelestialVoid



Series: Prey [3]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 75th Hunger Games, Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Angst, BAMF Derek Hale, BAMF Stiles, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Dad Stiles, District 12 Derek, District 12 Stiles, Gen, Hunger Games-Typical Death/Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Jabberjays, M/M, Minor Character Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Quarter Quell, dad derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-24
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-09-01 22:22:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 21
Words: 49,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8640418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CelestialVoid/pseuds/CelestialVoid
Summary: “Citizens of Beacon Hills, I have an announcement to make. To mark the momentous occasion of the seventy-fifth anniversary of the passing of the Dark Days, and as a reminder to the rebels and revolutionaries that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, this year’s Hunger Games will be a little different. The tributes of the Quarter Quell will be reaped from the existing pool of victors.”There was that feeling again, as if Stiles had been slammed in his chest. Tears prickled at his eyes and his lungs burnt for air. His limbs trembled, hands quivering as the world around him fell silent.The man’s face twisted into a cynical smile as he said, “Good luck, and a happy Hunger Games to you all.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, the long-awaited sequel!

Stiles sat on the balcony, a mug of tea cupped in his hands and his knees tucked up to his chest. He felt a cool breeze roll across the District, shivering as he pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders.

The splintering grooves of the withered wooden boards that stretched across the balcony scratched at his bare feet. He wiggled his toes, feeling the icy night prickle the exposed skin.

The cold made his old wounds ache and the rippling pale scars on his thigh and his forearm were a constant reminder of why. There were times when he swore he could still feel the arrowhead burrowed deep in his muscles, the tracker still wedged in his tissue, the jagged wire of the District fence still pulling at his pale skin, or the warmth of the blood that trickled from the wounds. But when he’d look down there’d be nothing wrong – no wounds, no blood: just the smooth rosy pink skin that scarred his pale flesh.

The District was silent, the cool blanket of night had settled across the streets.

Stiles looked up at the starry sky above. His eyes were drawn to the radiant lucida. His heart sank into his gut as he remembered the promise he made last year, the promise he made to the young girl whose vibrant disembodied soul made that star glow so brightly.

Kira.

The wooden boards of the balcony creaked as quiet footsteps crept up behind him.

Stiles turned, his eyes falling upon the large figure that made his way over to the steps. He offered his father a weak smile.

The man grunted and groaned as he sat down next to the boy.

“What’s up, kiddo?” his dad whispered.

“I don’t know what to do,” Stiles admitted. “There’s two days until the Reaping Ceremony, and I can’t sit back and watch another two kids be dragged into the Games.”

John sighed and gently patted his son’s knee.

Stiles knew he was lost for words; he had no experience with the Games and he had no wisdom to share. Peter would be the one to ask, but – even though he had sobered up over the past year – he still wasn’t one for sensitive conversations or emotional support.

“The Games were the worst thing I’ve ever experienced: worse than losing mum or the fear of losing you every time a mine collapses,” Stiles admitted. “It’s not because I don’t love you – I do, more than anything,” Stiles babbled.

John gave the boy’s knee a gentle squeeze, reassuring Stiles that he knew his son loved him. And Stiles knew that his dad returned that insurmountable love.

“I told myself I wouldn’t let the Games change me, but I feel like they have. I just feel so scared, so angry and helpless. But it feels like more than that, more like… guilt, you know?” Stiles ventured, staring down at his calloused palms. He didn’t want to look his dad in the eye in fear that the man would judge him for his weaknesses. His voice dropped off as he searched for the right words. “I feel like it’s… I feel like I’ve lost something – some part of myself – a-and I can’t get it back.”

“You can’t,” John whispered. “Not entirely.”

Stiles looked up at him, confused.

“It’s like when you break a glass,” John explained. “The pieces are still there and you can glue them together, but there will still be bits missing and you’ll still see the cracks. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t a glass.” He glanced at his son, his pale eyes full of love and worry. “You might be a little broken, but you’re still you. All you need to do is pick up the pieces and put yourself back together.”

“I don’t know how to do that,” Stiles whispered.

“You do. You’ve done it so many times before. It’s just that you’ve always been so focused on helping other people that you never realised you were doing it,” John explained.

Stiles bowed his head.

“Hey,” John whispered, setting a reassuring hand on his son’s shoulder. “We’re here for you. You know that, right?”

Stiles smiled weakly. “Of course I do.”

“We love you, Stiles. Even Peter does.”

Stiles screwed up his face at that comment and John couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Go back to bed, Stiles,” John instructed. “Curl up with Derek and try and get some more sleep. And when he wakes up to go hunting with Scott in the morning, tell him you love him.”

Stiles smiled and hid his blush in the soft folds of his blanket.

“Spend tomorrow with the people you love,” John continued. “The Reaping Ceremony isn’t for two days. The Games will be hard, I’m not going to lie, but you’ll have Peter and Derek to help you get through the experience of mentorship. And when the Games are done, you’ll come home and we’ll still be here for you.”

“Thanks, dad,” Stiles rasped.

John gently tousled his hair. He leant forward and pressed a kiss to the boy’s forehead.

“Come on, kiddo, it’s too cold and too early to be awake,” John muttered as he rose to his feet and walked back inside.

Stiles sighed and followed. He made his way upstairs and said goodnight to his dad before going back to his room. He laid the blanket over the bed and crawled under the sheets.

Derek rolled over and laid his arms around Stiles.

Stiles snuggled back into the warmth, feeling Derek flinch and pull away slightly.

“Jesus,” Derek hissed. “Your feet are freezing cold.”

“Sorry,” Stiles whispered.

Derek moved closer and pulled Stiles back against his chest, keeping his feet away from the boy’s.

“Are you okay?” Derek asked, gently caressing the exposed patch skin beneath Stiles’ shirt and nuzzling his face into the boy’s ruffled hair.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” Stiles replied. He nestled into the warmth of Derek’s chest. “I love you.”

He could feel Derek smile as he whispered, “I love you too.”

 

Stiles slowly blinked himself awake to the glow of the late morning light.

He was greeted by a bright smile, sapphire eyes that glistened with joy and a mess of golden curls.

“Morning,” Stiles said suspiciously.

“Hi,” Isaac replied sweetly.

“What are you doing?”

“Derek went out hunting and he said you were really sleepy so he left you asleep and we aren’t allowed to wake you,” Isaac replied. “He said I could sleep in your bed until he comes back.”

“All right.” Stiles rubbed at his eyes and groaned as he stretched. “I’m going to go down to the shelter today, do you want to come with me?”

Isaac shook his head. “I’m going to help Melissa make medicines and carry them down to the hospital.”

“Okay,” Stiles whispered. He gently tousled the boy’s hair and sat upright in his bed. He rose to his feet and quickly got dressed. He and Isaac left the room and made their way downstairs.

Isaac bounded into the kitchen and wound his arms around Melissa’s waist.

Melissa giggled and hugged the boy back. She waited for Isaac to take a step back before handing him a bowl of fruit and a slice of bread.

He very carefully carried them over to the dining table and sat down to eat. He meticulously tore the slice of bread into smaller pieces and devoured it.

Stiles watched him, smiling at his strange and unique mannerisms. He crossed the kitchen, gave Melissa a kiss on the cheek and thanked her as he took the slice of fresh bread that she offered him. He ate it quickly and grabbed an apple, biting into the juicy fruit as he shrugged on a jacket. He gathered a bagful of rations as well as some fresh fruit, oats and powdered milk and made his way towards the front door, pausing to shout over his shoulder, “Be good, Isaac.”

“I will,” the younger boy promised. “Give the baby lots of kisses and cuddles from me.”

“Okay.”

Stiles slid the bag full of supplies up onto his shoulders and stepped out into the streets of District Twelve. He trudged through the muddy puddles and sludge of defrosting ice, waving to the children in the street and talking briefly to the stall owners and passing workers.

He made his way to Chris’ old house and knocked on the door, even though there was no need to.

Bobby Finstock opened the door, ushering the boy inside. Stiles made his way into the small kitchenette and set down the bag. He sorted through its contents and stored them away, only stopping at the sound of a baby crying in the other room. He set down the apples he was holding and made his way into Allison’s old room.

The small space was full of mattresses that were laid across the floor, making the room look like a giant cushion. It was laid out in a way that was designed to fit as many people as possible. On the wall beside the door was a wardrobe that was full of clothes of all sizes – a gift from Lydia and Peter for anyone in the District to take. There was a small cradle set up in the corner of the room, full of toys that were gifts from everyone in the District, including Isaac’s favourite patchwork teddy bear. Inside the cot was a lively baby who – despite Coach’s best efforts – would not stop crying.

“How’s my little girl?” Stiles cooed as he walked over to the cot that sat in the corner.

The baby let out a heart-breaking wail. She reached up for him, her chubby little fingers grabbing in his general direction as her face reddened and tears fell from her eyes.

“That bad, huh?” Stiles asked as he picked her up out of her cot. He bundled her up in his arms and cradled her close to his chest.

Her cries died away instantly. Her chubby hands grabbed fistfuls of Stiles’ shirt as she snuggled her face into the soft cotton. She let out a little giggle and began to babble nonsense as she smiled toothlessly up at Stiles.

“I don’t know how you do that,” Coach muttered quietly. “It takes us hours to get her to settle.”

“She’s just picky,” Stiles said, pulling a funny face and making the little girl giggle more.

Her bright hazel eyes looked at him with nothing but love as her tiny hand wound around one of Stiles’ slender fingers.

“She has her mother’s eyes,” Coach commented. His voice was a little harsh when he added, “And her father’s nose.”

“I think she has a cute little nose,” Stiles whispered, gently booping her nose. The baby let out a squeal of delight and grabbed at Stiles’ hand again.

“Have you come up with a name yet?” Coach asked as he retrieved the baby’s bottle of milk from beside the bed.

“Yeah, we have,” Stiles replied, unable to take his eyes off the little baby girl. “Laura Allison Stilinski.”

The baby perked up at the name, smiling brighter.

“Oh, do you like that?” Stiles asked, his voice took on a soft coddling tone that was usually used by mothers.

Little Laura giggled and gently suckled on Stiles’ finger.

Coach passed Stiles the bottle. The boy juggled his hold on Laura as he brought the bottle to her lips.

She drank greedily, weakly reaching up for the bottle with her chubby hands and pretending to hold it.

“I protested against Stilinski because Hale sounds better,” Stiles explained. “Or at least a combination or hyphenation of both our names, but Derek doesn’t want her to have any relation to his uncle.”

“I don’t blame him,” Coach Finstock said, screwing up his face at the mention of Peter.

While the victor was becoming more social and approachable, there were still some issues with a few people in the District. He was improving though, sobering up and contributing to the shelter – offering clothes, cooked meals and toys for the young children.

Stiles craned his neck and pressed a tender kiss to the girl’s forehead.

She smiled, a stream of milk dribbling from her rosy pink lips.

Stiles dabbed at it, smiling back at the beautiful little girl.

Laura gently pushed the bottle away and let out a burp that sounded more like a hiccup before snuggling into Stiles’ arms, perfectly content.

“Before I forget, they found this among her mother’s belongings,” Coach announced, handing him a small piece of paper, folded over many times and stained by wear and dirt. “They’re going to present it on your behalf to have the papers signed.”

Stiles frowned in confusion, looking down at the piece of paper. He traded the now-empty bottle for the paper and carefully unfolded the note. On it were scrawls of elegant handwriting in refined charcoal – the closest thing they had to a pen or pencil in District Twelve. It read:

 

   _To my child,_

_Your father asked me if I was writing a love letter and, in a way, I guess I am._

_You see, I never got to know my mother; she died when I was born. I was too young to remember her and I have no idea how she felt when she was pregnant with me: if she was excited, scared, ecstatic, or if she thought I was a mistake. So I thought I’d take this time to write this letter and let you know just how happy I am in this moment, how much your father and I can’t wait to meet you, and to make you a promise. I want to promise you will have three things that I never did: you will have a safe home, someone to tell you they love you every day and night, and someone to fight for you, no matter what. In other words, a family._

_I want you to know right now that I love you, and I always will._

_I hope to see you soon._

_With all the love in my heart,_

_Your mother._

 

Stiles fought back tears as he folded up the piece of paper and handed it back to Coach Finstock.

“I’m going to make sure she grows up to know who her parents were,” Stiles promised. “She deserves to have that much. She deserves to have a family.”

“She will. She’ll have you. You’re going to make a wonderful father,” Coach told him.

“Yeah,” Stiles whispered, a hint of sorrow dragging at his voice. “But the papers have to be passed first and that’s taking a long time… longer than I had hoped.”

“Hey,” Coach whispered comfortingly. “It’ll happen. It’s just more difficult to process papers considering your participation in the Games, the fact that we live in Twelve, and we don’t have the signed consent of one or both of her parents, but it will happen. And when it does, you and Derek will be the best fathers in the whole of District Twelve.”

“Don’t tell my dad that,” Stiles teased. “Besides, you’re a pretty good father too. How’s your son?”

“Good,” Coach replied. “That cream Melissa gave him for the cuts really helped... I just wish he would listen to me and stop picking fights.”

“If he does it again, send him my way and I’ll have Peter and Derek sit him down for a talk.”

“I want to educate the boy, not terrify him.”

Stiles chuckled and smiled down at the bundle of chubby limbs in his arms.

Coach gently patted Stiles’ shoulder before rising and leaving the room.

Stiles reached inside her cot and picked up her patchwork teddy bear.

She stretched her arms out and made grabby hands at it, her chubby fingers curling eagerly as she squealed with joy.

Stiles brought it over to her, watching as her toothless smile widened and she clutched the bear to her chest. The unsettled hazel depths of her irises glittered as the light made the colour waver between a golden tone of amber and a glittering jade.

She could have been their child – if that was biologically possible – with gorgeous eyes that reminded him of Derek’s and freckled cheeks that dipped into dimples whenever she smiled, just like Stiles’. But she did look like her mother.

Stiles didn’t know who Laura’s father was, all he knew was that the young man had died in the mine that had collapsed a few months ago.

It was the first mine collapse they had had in a little over a year, but still it shook them all to the core. The loud boom and rumbling ground was all too familiar for those who lived in District Twelve.

Stiles had been out at the market with Scott and Derek when everyone leapt into action. The three of them sprinted towards the mines and helped pull people out of the rubble. Scott and Stiles ran patients to the District hospital and tended to those on site while Derek – who was admittedly a little confused about what had happened – climbed down into the unsteady tunnels and helped Chris and John pull the wounded survivors and the unfortunate losses from the collapsed mine.

Stiles had known Laura’s mother though, if only for a short while. She was a beautiful young woman with flowing chocolate brown locks and skin that glowed despite the layers of coal dust and dirt that had been smeared over her face. She was only a few years older than him and Derek, but she looked like she had an exquisite mixture of youth and wisdom, her hazel eyes sparkling with the secrets of the universe.

Stiles had met her when he and Melissa ran to the District hospital to deliver her baby. He had held her hand as she suffered through an agonising labour. He remembered the searing pain of her unforgiving grip and the sharp jolts that radiated out from where her nails dug into his skin, and yet – in the moment – he had felt nothing; his attention was focused solely on her. She never told him her name, but he remembered her kind smile as he whispered sweet nothings to her in an attempt to keep her calm. He remembered how helpless he, Scott and Melissa had felt when they realised they had to make the choice between her child’s life and hers. He remembered how confident she was as she told them that the baby’s life came first. In that moment, Stiles admired her composure and will. And yet, he couldn’t put aside the guilt and helplessness that lingered inside of him because he knew he couldn’t save her. He remembered how the young woman looked at him and told him a story of how Allison had bought her flowers for no reason other than to see her smile.

“You’re like her,” Stiles had told her. “You’re like Allison.”

“I’m not that strong,” she whimpered.

“Yes, you are.”

She seemed to realise that Stiles was reliving that dreadful day yet again, holding her in his arms as she fought to hold onto life.

Stiles remembered how everyone in that room was nearly reduced to tears of relief when they heard the baby draw breath and scream. He remembered how Laura’s mother’s eyes sparkled – just like her daughter’s – as she cradled the newborn baby in her arms. Her smile was radiant as tears streaked her cheeks.

He remembered the peaceful expression and the pride in her eyes as she turned to Stiles and begged, “Please, promise me that you’ll take care of her. I’m not asking you to raise her – you don’t have to burden yourself with that responsibility – just please make sure she’s taken care of.”

“I will,” Stiles promised.

The young woman glanced down at the child in her arms.

“I don’t know what to call her,” she whispered, a hint of fear in her voice. Her hands trembled weakly.

Before Stiles could ask her what she would have named her, she laid back against the pillows. Her body grew weak as she cradled the baby against her chest.

The newborn let out a heart-breaking wail as her mother let her final breath fall past her lips.

Melissa carefully lifted the baby out of her mother’s arms and carried her over to a small washbasin.

Stiles stayed by the mother’s side and held her cold hand.

She was dead, but Stiles couldn’t bring himself to leave her.

“Why Laura?” Coach asked, shaking Stiles from his thoughts as he brought over the plush blanket that Peter had given his future great-niece – one of her favourites, despite Coach’s disposition towards the man.

“She was Derek’s older sister,” Stiles explained as he juggled little Laura in his arms and wrapped the blanket around her. She snugged into the warmth, heavy eyelids blinking shut. Stiles held her close and gently rocked her as she fell asleep: completely at peace in the warmth and security of his comforting embrace. “He always tells me how gentle-hearted she was and how much he loved her. And I felt like he needs to be in her life too. So she’ll get Stilinski from me and Laura from Derek.”

“And Allison?”

“From all of us,” Stiles whispered, gently stroking his thumb across Laura’s chubby, rosy pink cheek. “Both Derek and I… and her mother.”

 

Stiles stayed with Laura for a few more hours before he set her down in her cot and made his way back home. When he got back, the house was empty – Melissa and Isaac had gone to the hospital, Scott and Derek still hadn’t returned from their hunt, Lydia was to return early the next morning with news from the Capitol and instructions for this year’s Hunger Games, and his father and Chris had already left for work. The only other person in the house was Peter, who was in the kitchen cooking dinner for both their household and the shelter.

Stiles followed the sound of clunking pots, crackling fire and boiling sauces and soups. He stayed back in the doorway, knowing the man would yell at him for getting in the way if he dared to enter uninvited.

“Anything I can help with?” Stiles asked.

“No, thank you,” Peter replied, not taking his eyes off the food. “I’m nearly finished. Is Lydia back yet?”

“No,” Stiles answered. “Why? Do you miss her?”

Peter shot a dirty glare over his shoulder at the boy.

“No,” he said dryly. “I was just wondering how much more peace and quiet I have before I have to deal with her.”

“Admit it, you miss her,” Stiles teased.

“She’s been gone a day, why would I miss her?” Peter snapped.

“Peter,” Stiles said, levelling his gaze with the man. “You’ve been asking the same question every hour, on the hour, since she left.”

“Just wondering,” Peter repeated.

“You miss her, don’t you?”

“Sobriety after years of drowning your demons in alcohol as a means of escape isn’t easy, Stiles,” Peter replied. “And you of all people should know that in District Twelve, having someone to talk to can make a world of difference.” Peter drew in a deep breath and braced his weight against his hands as he leant forward against the counter top. “Yes, I miss her. But not because of the reasons you’d think. I miss her because I know how the Capitol twists and manipulates her and I don’t want that for her, because she’s my support whenever I’m struggling with something, _because she’s my_ _friend_.”

Stiles offered him a kind smile.

“She’ll be home in the morning. Just a few more hours,” Stiles replied. “And if you need someone to talk to, you know I’m here for you.”

Peter sighed and smiled – not a creepy cynical one, but a genuine, rather handsome, smile. He turned off the stove, stirring everything one last time before turning to face Stiles. “Are you okay?”

“What do you mean?” Stiles asked, daring to step into the kitchen and fetch a small handful of plump red strawberries.

“I heard you get up last night,” Peter replied. “And the night before, and the night before that, and the night before that.”

“I, uh… I still get nightmares,” Stiles explained.

Peter looked at him, his expression soft and welcoming as he gently encouraged the boy to talk more.

“I’m not sure I’m ready to face another Hunger Games,” Stiles admitted.

Peter crossed the kitchen and rested his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I’ll be honest, the first few years are brutal; they tear open old wounds and just cause more damage. But you’ll have Derek and your family. And it may not be much, but I’ll be here for you too.”

Stiles smiled weakly up at the man and whispered, “Thanks.”

Peter opened his mouth to say something when a soft knock at the door interrupted him.

They both frowned in confusion.

No-one ever knocked at their door.

Stiles made his way back through the house and towards the front door.

He opened it to the cool breeze, looking down at the young girl on his doorstep. He had seen her before: she was a representative of the Capitol, but she wasn’t one assigned to District Twelve like Lydia was.

“Hello,” Stiles greeted kindly.

The young girl looked scared, biting into her rosy pink lips as she tried to avoid eye contact.

“Is something wrong?” Stiles asked.

She swallowed hard and announced, “Your presence is required at the Justice Building. I am here to escort you there.”

Stiles nodded and grabbed his jacket from the hook by the door.

“I’ll be back soon,” he shouted over his shoulder to Peter who lingered in the kitchen doorway, glaring at the girl on the porch.

Stiles made his way across the District, walking a few steps behind the Capitol representative. She led him to the large building and escorted him upstairs to one of the offices. She bowed politely and pushed open the door for him.

“Thank you,” Stiles whispered as he stepped inside of the office.

It was better furnished than the other offices downstairs, but Stiles’ attention was drawn to the man seated behind the desk.

“Mr Stilinski,” a cold, gruff voice called from across the room.

“President Deucalion,” Stiles replied curtly, unable to summon an ounce of respect as the man turned to look at him. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Are you aware that the walls of the mine shafts in District Twelve are all lined with explosives,” Deucalion muttered. “Rather dangerous, don’t you think?”

“Is that a threat?” Stiles growled.

The man levelled his eyes with Stiles, taking off the dark shades he wore to expose his cloudy grey irises. His stature spoke volumes for the power he held, so much so that he didn’t need to answer the boy’s question.

“How would you define a hero, Stiles?” Deucalion asked, derailing their conversation. He kept his voice level and authoritative.

“A person who’s admired for their courage, achievements and noble qualities,” Stiles replied.

Deucalion nodded, his face twisted into an expression of thought.

“A textbook definition,” the man commented, his voice wavering somewhere between condescension and a compliment.

Stiles swallowed hard as he felt the man’s glare focus on him.

“And which part of that definition applies to you?”

Stiles drew in a deep breath. His lips quivered around words that were left unspoken.

“None of it,” Deucalion answered for him. “Because you, Stiles, are not a hero. You’re a child.”

“You’re mistaken; a child can be a hero. A child can do incredible things. I’m not a victor as you would have me be,” Stiles rasped. “I never said I was. Nor have I ever called myself a hero.”

“Then why are you pretending to be one?” Deucalion asked, rising from his seat behind the desk and towering over the boy.

“I’m not,” Stiles replied.

“The people of Beacon Hills see you as some sort of saviour, a symbol of hope,” Deucalion drawled.

“I’m not.”

“Hope is such a precious thing,” President Deucalion continued, ignoring the boy. “So fragile, and yet, so powerful. Hope is the only thing stronger than fear.”

“Is there a point to this discussion?” Stiles asked, all manners and courtesy dropping from his being.

“Fear is what makes us human,” Deucalion said bluntly. “It draws a clear division between those with power and those without it. Those who have more to lose have more to fear, wouldn’t you say?”

Stiles knew exactly what he meant. He swallowed hard and spoke through gritted teeth, “I am well aware of what I have to lose. But you’re barking up the wrong tree; I didn’t give these people hope, I didn’t tell them to rebel.”

“Well, a lot of people don’t see your actions as those of love, but – rather – as defiance,” Deucalion explained. “And if a boy from District Twelve can defy the Capitol and walk away unharmed, why can’t they?”

“I didn’t give them that power. They did that themselves. So if you think threatening me will stop them, you had better think again. Because if you hurt someone I love then you’ll make a martyr of them. And if you _dare_ hurt the people I love, you will see what a real rebellion looks like.”

Deucalion turned and picked something up off the rich oak desk. “You fought well in the Games, but that was all pretend. Would you like to see what a real war looks like?”

“No,” Stiles replied bluntly.

“Then stop pretending,” Deucalion said lowly.

The man took a step closer to the boy and pushed the thing in his hand against Stiles’ chest.

Stiles grunted at the heavy thud, breathing deeply to steady himself.

Deucalion craned his neck, brought his face close to Stiles’ ear and snarled, “Remember this, _Stiles_ : it’s the things we love the most that destroy us.”

The man stepped away, leaving his haunting words to bounce around in Stiles’ head as he released his grip and let whatever he was holding fall to the boy’s feet.

Stiles waited for the quiet rattle of the doors closing before he dared look down.

He felt his heart sink into his stomach as he glanced down at the crisp white rose that stirred the dust. The bright petals didn’t show a sign of age or decay, but there was a single drop of ruby red blood among the fragile grooves.

Stiles bent down and picked it up, turning it in his fingers slightly.

He couldn’t take his eyes off it, and he couldn’t stop the thoughts and memories from flooding his mind. He was able to fight most of them back, but one slipped past his defences: one unforgettable, painful image. The same image he had been fighting out of his nightmares for the past year: the blood soaked body that laid among the soft petals of the blossoming flowers.

Allison.


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles felt numb as he made his way back through District Twelve.

His blood ran cold, his lips trembled and his breathing was shallow. His lungs burnt from a lack of air as the sweet temptation of breath danced before him, unobtainable.

He stumbled slightly as he made his way into the Victor’s Village. His foot struck the large cast iron gate that laid on the ground where it was overcome by frosty weeds, making him stumble slightly.

He stepped up onto the small balcony and made his way inside. His footsteps echoed across the wooden floorboards as he made his way through the lounge room and towards the small study. Chris said something as Stiles passed the couch, but the man’s voice was so dull, distant and drowned out by Stiles’ thoughts that the boy didn’t hear it.

Stiles stepped over to the open doorway that led into the study and slouched against the doorframe, watching the two boys on the couch.

Isaac was curled up against Derek’s side with his favourite book spread across his lap. He ran his finger back and forth over the page as he followed the words, not that he needed to; he had long since memorised the entirety of _The Little Prince_. He knew the story word for word, and yet his eyes still sparkled with joy every time he picked it up. Every time was a new time for him: the words were captivating and the story was invigorating.

Isaac had tried other books but some were too long and others weren’t fun enough. No matter how many books you offered him, he always came back to _The Little Prince_. He loved everything about it: the pictures, the little prince, the adventurous story and especially the fox.

This was their routine, after they had both done their chores and Derek had gone hunting or to see Laura, they would sit and read.

Isaac still asked Derek to read to him sometimes, especially if he wanted a story with funny voices, but he was desperately trying to get better at reading the books himself. He had promised a few weeks ago that he would get good enough to read to little Laura; he really wanted to read her _The Little Prince_ so that she could love it as much as he does.

Stiles let out a soft sigh.

The sight of the two of them made his heart ache but at the same time, seeing the smiles on their faces was enough to wash away any doubt or lingering shadows in his mind.

 _We’ll be okay_ , Stiles told himself. _We’ll get through anything together._

 

A heavy hand fell on Stiles’ shoulder.

The boy jumped and spun around.

“Are you okay?” John asked.

“I’m fine,” Stiles lied. “Why do you ask?”

“Because you’ve been staring at the wall for hours,” John pointed out.

“It’s an interesting wall,” Stiles replied without missing a beat.

His father was right: Stiles hadn’t slept and he had spent the entire morning sitting in one of the armchairs, staring at the wall while he replayed his encounter with Deucalion over and over again in his head.

The man’s words haunted him and he couldn’t shake them.

He had noticed that Peter and Melissa had tried to get his attention earlier to try and get him to eat or bathe, but no-one seemed able to stir him from his trance.

“Isaac’s been trying to get your attention,” Derek whispered. “You’ve been catatonic.”

Stiles’ stomach twisted with guilt.

He met Derek’s pale eyes and repeated, “I’m fine.”

His voice broke a little as he spoke, but he tried his best to ignore it.

He turned to Isaac, disregarding the worried gazes of the men who stood around him as he asked, “What’s up, buddy?”

“Derek’s going to see Laura,” Isaac muttered. “Can I please read to you?”

“Sure,” Stiles said with a smile.

He rose from his seat and followed Isaac into the study. Derek trailed after them, waiting in the doorway as he watched Isaac pick up his slightly tattered copy of _The Little Prince_ from the small table beside the couch and sit down next to Stiles.

The pages of the book had been thumbed smooth by how many times Isaac and Derek had read it. The dark blue canvas cover was fraying and some of the pages were barely hanging onto the binding. Derek and Peter had both offered to have the book rebound but Isaac seemed content with the worn copy.

The boy set the book down in his lap and waited for Stiles to say he could start.

Stiles glanced up at Derek.

“I’m fine,” he repeated yet again, hoping that if he said it enough then the others would leave him alone.

Derek sighed and took a step forward. He pressed a tender kiss to Stiles’ forehead and whispered, “I’ll be back soon. Peter’s here if you need anything.”

“I’ll be okay,” Stiles assured him. “Give Laura lots of kisses and cuddles from us.”

“I will,” Derek promised before turning his attention to Isaac. “You take care of him and show him how good you are at reading.”

Isaac nodded enthusiastically.

Derek gently tousled his golden curls and turned to leave. He paused in the doorway and looked back at the boys huddled together on the couch.

“I love you, Stiles.”

Stiles’ eyes glittered a gorgeous amber tone in the reflection of the light as he smiled and replied, “I love you too, Derek.”

Derek bowed his head and left.

Stiles looked down at Isaac who looked as if he were about to implode with excitement.

“Okay,” Stiles said, putting him out of his misery. He shuffled closer to the boy and wrapped an arm around Isaac’s slender shoulder. “Read to me.”

The sound of Isaac’s voice lulled him into a state of bliss, his thoughts drifting and his mind peacefully quiet until something caught his attention. About two thirds of the way into the story, Stiles felt drawn to Isaac’s voice as he read:

 

 _“No,” said the little prince, “I’m looking for friends. What does_ tamed _mean?”_

_“It’s something that’s been too often neglected. It means, ‘to create ties’…”_

_“’To create ties’?”_

_“That’s right,” the fox said. “For me you’re only a little boy just like a hundred thousand other little boys. And I have no need for you. And you have no need for me, either. For you I’m only a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But if you tame me, we’ll need each other. You’ll be the only boy in the world for me. I’ll be the only fox in the world for you…”_

 

Isaac’s voice trailed off for a moment as his thoughts drifted off.

Stiles craned his neck to look at the boy. “What’s wrong?”

“Is that like us?” Isaac asked.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m just a normal boy like any other boy and so is Derek or Scott. We’re the foxes. And Laura is a fox too, except she’s a girl fox. You are the Little Prince; you made ‘ties’ with us and now we’re family: you’re the only one in the world for us and we’re the only ones in the world for you,” Isaac explained. He turned his bright blue eyes to Stiles. “Is that how it works?”

Stiles thought about it for a moment before he smiled and replied, “Yeah, that’s how it is.”

“I’m glad that you did,” Isaac whispered, snuggling up to Stiles’ side.

Stiles held him close, nuzzling his face into Isaac’s curls. “Me too.”

He gave Isaac a tight squeeze before sitting him back and encouraging him to keep reading.

Isaac smiled and returned to the book.

Derek hadn’t been lying: Isaac was definitely improving. Yes, he still had to follow the words with his finger but he read the story fluidly, without stalling or reading each word staccato.

Every now and then, Peter would duck his head into the study to make sure they were okay. Occasionally he would bring treats: marshmallows, chocolate, fresh juice or a cup of tea. Other times, he would linger in the doorway and listen to Isaac’s reading.

While Isaac was still a little scared of Peter, the man had definitely warmed up to the younger boy over the past year and would often bring home new books from the market for Isaac to read. He would spoil Isaac rotten with treats and presents, anything to make the boy smile.

Isaac finished reading _The Little Prince_ and set the book down. He beamed with pride as he looked up at Stiles.

“That was fantastic,” Stiles said.

Isaac giggled and asked, “Good enough to read to Laura?”

Stiles nodded. “Definitely. She’ll love it.”

Isaac set the book down on the small table by the couch and scurried off somewhere.

Stiles rose to his feet and started to follow after the boy when Peter appeared in the doorway.

“Before you start,” Stiles growled. “I’m fine.”

Peter sighed, not believing the boy. He opened his mouth to speak when they were interrupted by the loud rumbling of car engines and the familiar sound of roaring fire.

“Isaac, stay here,” Stiles told the younger boy.

“Okay,” Isaac promised, his voice breaking slightly with fear as he sank back into the small study.

Stiles and Peter sprinted out into the District. Their shoes struck the ground with a thundering beat that matched their hearts as they raced out into the centre of the District.

“I’ll help your dad evacuate the mines, you go find Melissa and Derek,” Peter instructed.

Stiles nodded and turned to run down a nearby street.

Armed guards in heavy armour hurled people out of their homes and into the street. They tore through the houses, emptying drawers, hurling toys and treasured belongings into the mud and shattering glasses of rations, oil and water before igniting the piles.

Stiles felt his heart sink into his gut. He swallowed hard against the bile that rose into his throat.

He pulled up to a halt before the Argent’s old house, swiftly turning and running inside.

Young children were huddled in the corner, tears of fear streaking their cheeks.

“Come on,” Stiles encouraged, keeping his voice light and level despite the fear that coursed through his veins. “Everybody up and out into the town square. Move quickly and quietly and stay together.”

The children nodded and rose to the feet. They rubbed at their faces and held onto each other’s hands as they followed the young man’s instructions and scurried out into the streets.

“Derek?” Stiles called.

The man emerged from the back room with Laura in his arms.

The little girl seemed stunned, babbling her confusion as her bright eyes looked from Derek to Stiles. She seemed happy that she was in the comfort and security of her dad’s arms but she was also scared by the sounds of the chaos that erupted in the District.

“What’s going on?” Derek asked.

“I have no idea. They’re raiding houses and burning everything,” Stiles stammered. “I need you to get everyone out of here and into the town square, they’ll be safe there. Just keep quiet and stop anyone from starting any fights. Once everyone’s gathered we’ll try and make sense of this.”

“Okay,” Derek agreed. “And what are you going to do?”

“I need to find Melissa and help her evacuate the hospital,” Stiles panted. “Now, go!”

Stiles turned and ran out the door again. He sprinted down the street, weaving through the gathering crowd of people as he yelled at them to make their way into the centre of the District.

His legs burnt with pain and the old scar in his thigh was throbbing under the strain.

 _Keep running_ , he told himself. _Keep going_.

Stiles picked up his feet and ran faster. His heavy boots thumped against the ground with a thundering beat.

His boots sank into the muddy sludge that filled the streets, dragging at his feet and making him stumble and slow slightly.

Smoke and ash filled his lungs as he ran, making him cough and gasp breathlessly. His nose was filled with the bitter scent of ash and the rich scent of burning pine.

He skidded to a halt, stirring up a cloud of dirt and mud in his wake.

His legs trembled slightly as he stood before the District hospital.

A roaring orange glow consumed the building. Tendril-like flames flickered as they devoured the wooden planks and the frail lace curtains.

The heat of the blaze radiated against his skin, the glow making the beads of sweat glisten on his skin and his tears burn as they welled in his eyes.

His heart sank into his stomach. He blinked heavily, the tears falling past his thick lashes and streaking Stiles’ cheeks as he watched on helplessly as the fire destroyed the house, his house, his home, and the memories of his childhood along with it. Among the flickering flames he could see the fleeting image of his mother dancing about the kitchen with him, he could hear her sweet laughter and soft voice as she read to him. He felt cold, watching the dancing flames devour and destroy everything.

Then another thought struck him.

His heart lurched into his throat.

“Melissa,” he gasped.

His voice caught in his throat, strained as the smoke burnt at his lungs.

His heart pounded in his ears as his cries were hushed by the roaring flaming.

“Melissa!”

“I’m here,” came the quiet reply.

Stiles spun around, spotting the woman huddled in the shadows of a nearby building. She was arched over a man who was covered in ash, blood and burns.

Stiles ran over to her and dropped to his knees beside them.

“Are you okay?” Stiles asked Melissa. He looked at the woman’s face, noticing the bloody cut that ran down the side of her face. He carefully reached forward and brushed his fingertips across the darkening bruise that marred her cheekbone.

“I’m fine. Hold this,” she instructed, nodding towards the bandage she held to the man’s ribs.

Stiles did as she said.

The man grunted and hissed as Melissa carefully wound the bandages around his waist.

“Alright, you can let go,” Melissa whispered, tying off the bandages before turning her attention to the man’s other wounds.

“Stiles!” a familiar voice called.

“Dad,” Stiles cried, leaping to his feet and running to his father. He fell into the man’s arms and held him close.

John wrapped his arms around the boy, cradling him against his chest.

“Is anyone else inside?” Chris asked Melissa.

She shook her head and replied, “No, Scott got them out.”

Stiles flinched. He pulled back from his dad and looked around. “Where’s Scott?”

No sooner had the words left his mouth did he hear his best friend’s all-too-familiar cry of agony.

“Scott!” Stiles howled, sprinting back through the streets and towards the main square.

His stomach churned as the bitter scent of charred wood and metallic blood burnt at his nostrils. Bile rose into his throat and his stomach knotted.

His breath fell short as a loud crack split the air and Scott cried out in pain.

Stiles pushed through the crowd and burst into the town centre before the Justice Building.

His eyes fell on Scott. The boy was chained around a large post, his shirt torn from his back and his olive flesh sliced open by the straps of a whip. Streams of blood covered his back as his shoulders rose and fell as he heaved in heavy, ragged breaths. His eyes were heavy and his eyelids fluttered as he struggled to stay conscious.

A man stepped forward. His armour was that of the captain of the guard, but he wasn’t the same man that had worked in District Twelve over the years. The man tightened his grip around the leather handle of his cat-of-nine-tales. He raised his arm, ready for another strike.

“No!” Stiles screamed, sprinting forward. “Stop!”

The whip cracked the air.

Scott grunted in pain as the beads struck his back.

Burning pain radiated across Stiles’ face as the lead weight tore open his flesh. He hit the ground, a stream of blood trickling down his cheek.

“Stiles,” Scott rasped. “It’s okay… Go…”

Stiles drew sharp breaths through his gritted teeth as he rose to his feet and stood between the captain of the guard and Scott.

“You want another?” the man growled, his blood-splattered face pulled back into a cynical grin.

Stiles didn’t flinch. He stared the man down with a vicious glare.

“Go ahead,” Stiles dared.

“So be it,” the man hissed, raising his arm.

“Wait,” Peter called, racing into the centre of the space. He stopped before Stiles, shielding the boy with his body. “You don’t want to do that.”

“I think I do,” the man argued.

“Look, I understand you’re new here, but I am trying to help you,” Peter said calmly. “Do you recognise him? That’s Stiles Stilinski: victor of the seventy-fourth Hunger Games and darling of the Capitol.”

“He intervened with a peacekeeper,” the captain of the guard shouted.

“I never said he was smart,” Peter pointed out.

Another figure sprinted into the open space.

The peacekeeper drew his gun.

Peter turned and shoved Derek behind him, shielding both of the boys as Derek pulled Stiles into his arms.

“Listen, you got a couple of hits in, let’s leave it at that before things get out of hand,” Peter bargained.

The man glared past Peter at Stiles.

“Fine, but I don’t care who he is, the next time he intervenes, it’s a firing squad,” the captain of the guard growled. He turned and surveyed the crowd before bellowing, “You are all under curfew. Anyone who is caught outside after dark will be shot on sight!”

The crowd quickly dissipated as people scurried back to their houses.

Peter let out a heavy sigh of relief before turning back to the boys. He nodded towards Scott and whispered, “Get him out of there.”

Stiles and Derek scurried forward, each unfastening one of the latches that pinned down Scott’s arms.

“I don’t think he can walk,” Stiles whispered, fear and worry flooding his veins.

“I’ll carry him,” Derek offered.

“He’s not as light as Isaac,” Stiles pointed out.

“It’s okay. I can carry him,” Derek assured him. “Help me lift him onto my back.”

Scott gasped and hissed as movement caused his body to radiate with pain.

“Put your arms around my neck,” Derek instructed, lifting Scott onto his back and coiling the younger boy’s slender legs around his waist.

“Get him home,” Peter instructed, helping Derek to his feet. “I’ll get Melissa.”

“Jesus, Scott,” Stiles whispered, stripping off his jacket and strapping it to Scott’s back in an attempt to stop or at least slow the bleeding. Stiles tried his best to keep up with Derek as they made their way through the streets and towards the Victor’s Village. “What did you do to make him this pissed?”

“I hit him…” Scott rasped.

“Why would you do that?” Stiles gawked.

Scott was blinking heavily. His blurry vision was half-focused on Stiles as he mumbled, “They were trying to stop us from getting people out of the hospital… He hit my mum…”

His voice trailed off as he blacked out, his head falling against Derek’s shoulder as his body grew weak in Derek’s hold.

“Derek,” Stiles said softly. “Hurry.”


	3. Chapter 3

They burst through the front door of the manor.

“Set him down on the table,” Stiles instructed.

“What’s going on?” a quiet voice asked from the lounge room.

“Isaac, stay there,” Stiles and Derek shouted in unison.

Derek carefully laid Scott down on the dining table, tilting his head to the side so the boy could breathe. He scurried into the lounge room and grabbed one of the cushions off the couch before returning to the table. He slid it beneath Scott’s head, letting the boy rest as he stirred slightly.

“Where’s Isaac?” Scott muttered.

“He’s fine,” Derek assured him. “He’s in the other room.”

“Don’t let him see… Don’t let him see…”

Derek gently shushed the boy and calmed him down.

“We need to cool the swelling but we also need to clean and treat his wounds,” Stiles explained. “I don’t know what to do and Melissa’s busy treating others for burns and lashings. I…. I…”

“Stiles, calm down,” Derek encouraged. He grabbed the boy by his shoulders and levelled his gaze with Stiles’ amber eyes. “Think.”

Stiles drew in a deep breath and took a second o compose himself.

“There are still some patches of snow that haven’t melted out by the boundary fence behind the house, if I take Isaac and get some buckets full we can make an ice pack for his back to help with the swelling,” Stiles offered.

Derek nodded.

“And while you’re gone, I’ll clean his wounds,” Derek explained.

“Okay, I’ll go boil some water and get a towel for you,” Stiles said before hurrying into the kitchen.

“And get the jar of aloe vera from the cupboard too,” Derek called after him.

“Is someone hurt?” Isaac asked from the other room.

“No, it’s okay, buddy,” Derek lied.

Stiles returned with a towel and the small jar of pureed aloe vera before returning to the kitchen and carefully carrying out a bowl of boiled water.

“Be careful not to scold his open wounds,” Stiles instructed, keeping his voice low and quiet. “He’ll bleed easily and he can’t afford to lose any more blood so be careful.”

Derek nodded.

Stiles and the boy exhaled heavily and walked out of the dining room and into the hallway.

Isaac peered out from around the corner of the study.

“Isaac, do you want to come and collect some ice with me?” Stiles invited.

The boy nodded – thankfully not asking any questions – and bounded to his feet. He ran to the front door but paused and turned back to Stiles.

Stiles quickly stepped to the side, blocking the younger boy’s view of the dining room.

“Derek,” Isaac called. “Where are the buckets?”

“They’re out in the courtyard, by the fountain,” Derek answered.

Isaac perked up as he seemed to remember where he had left them and then scurried out into the front yard.

Stiles watched as Isaac picked up his pale and made his way towards the boundary fence. He waited until the boy was out of earshot before turning back to Derek and whispering, “Be quick. I don’t know how long we’ll be.”

Derek nodded and Stiles shut the door behind himself.

He trudged through the mud and followed Isaac’s boot prints. When he caught up to the boy, he found Isaac crouching before the District’s perimeter fence and scooping the icy sludge into bucket.

Stiles crouched down next to Isaac and helped him scoop the snow into the buckets.

“There’s some new rules in District Twelve,” Stiles said quietly. “Don’t talk to peacekeepers and don’t go out after dark. Think you can do that?”

Isaac nodded.

“Good,” Stiles whispered.

There was a moment of quiet as they filled the buckets.

“Am I in trouble?” Isaac mumbled.

“No,” Stiles replied. “You’re not in trouble. There are just some new rules, that’s all.”

“What’s going to happen when the Games start again?” Isaac asked.

“It’ll be okay,” Stiles said unbelievably. He drew in a deep breath and explained, “Derek, Peter and I will be gone for a few days. While we’re gone, I need you to take care of Scott, Chris, Melissa and my dad and stay out of trouble. Can you do that for me?”

Isaac nodded again.

There was a moment of silence.

“I know what’s happening,” Isaac announced. “A lot of people are starting fights because of what the Capitol has done. I can see the change. Ever since you came out of the Games, things have been different. People have hope now, because of you.”

Stiles didn’t speak.

He should have known better than to try and fool Isaac into thinking everything’s okay.

“Scott got hurt, didn’t he?” Isaac asked.

Stiles didn’t reply.

“I heard him talking to Derek in the dining room, but you wouldn’t let me see… He’s hurt isn’t he? That’s why we’re getting ice.”

Stiles nodded. “But he’ll be alright. He’s Scott, after all.”

Isaac looked at him, confused.

“He’s big and he’s tough, and he won’t go down without a fight,” Stiles explained.

Isaac bowed his head, his eyes glittering with fear as he asked, “What if my name gets called this year? What if Scott’s name gets called again?”

“I won’t let that happen,” Stiles promised. “I would volunteer a million times over before I ever let you or Scott go into the Games.”

Isaac turned and wrapped his arms around Stiles’ neck.

Stiles weakened and pulled the smaller boy into his arms.

“It’s going to be okay,” Stiles whispered. “I promise.”

 

A couple of hours later, Stiles was sitting by the table, holding Scott’s hand. He was staring into oblivion and listening to the soft pattering of footsteps about the house: his father and Melissa in the kitchen, Isaac in his play room, Peter and Chris upstairs – chatting while they watched over Isaac – and Derek by the front door.

The older boy pulled on his jacket and boots and headed out to get another bucketful of icy slush for Scott’s ice pack.

The familiar thump of Peter’s feet echoed through the quiet house as he came back downstairs.

The man paused in the doorway.

“How is he?” he asked quietly.

“The swelling is starting to go down,” Stiles reported. “He’s stopped bleeding and some of the smaller cuts are already healing. It’ll take a week or so before the other cuts begin to heal.”

Peter nodded thoughtfully. “And how are you?”

Stiles didn’t reply.

“Did you get you get Melissa to look at your cheek?” Peter pressed.

Stiles nodded slightly.

The man’s lips quivered slightly, as if he wanted to say something, but before Peter had the chance to speak, the television blinked on in the other room. The Capitol anthem blared through the speakers and echoed throughout the house.

“What the hell?” Peter started.

Stiles released his hold on Scott’s hand and rose to his feet, following Peter through to the living room.

They stared at the television.

The Capitol emblem was stretched across the screen with bold letters set around it:

 

CAPITOL BROADCAST.

MANDATORY VIEWING.

ATTENTION, PEOPLE OF BEACON HILLS.

 

The image faded, replaced by the face of President Deucalion. His pale grey eyes stared down the camera, their lack of colour emphasised by the vibrant sapphire fabric of his military jacket that was lined with golden trim. The stiff collar sat upright and framed his narrow throat, emphasising his sleek jawline. His face was worn with lines of age, creasing his cheeks, shaping his brow and hollowing out his eyes. His hook nose stood out and his long chestnut brown hair had been styled back in hopes of making him look more presentable. His chin was shadowed by the slight scruff of a beard. A crisp white rose was pinned to his chest while several other roses were stacked in vases and set atop his desk. Before him was a small microphone, the gleaming silver metal matching the surroundings and the golden trim of the decorations and carved features behind him.

He maintained his stern expression and emotionless composure as he spoke, “Citizens of Beacon Hills, I have an announcement to make. To mark the momentous occasion of the seventy-fifth anniversary of the passing of the Dark Days, and as a reminder to the rebels and revolutionaries that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, this year’s Hunger Games will be a little different. The tributes of the Quarter Quell will be reaped from the existing pool of victors.”

There was that feeling again. It felt as if Stiles had been slammed in the chest with a bat. Tears prickled at his eyes and his lungs burnt for air. His limbs trembled, his hands quivering as the world around him fell silent.

Deucalion continued his speech but Stiles couldn’t hear him. He read the movements of his lips as he explained how Districts without two or more victors would have their second tribute reaped from the citizens of the Districts regardless of their age or gender.

The man’s face twisted into a cynical smile as he said, “Good luck, and a happy Hunger Games to you all.”

Stiles felt his legs fall from beneath him.

Peter caught him before he hit the floor. He lifted Stiles back up onto his own two feet and steadied him, turning him around to level his eyes with the boy.

Stiles choked on shallow breaths.

The name fell past his lips instinctively, as if he couldn’t help it.

“Derek.”

Stiles gently pushed aside Peter’s hands and stumbled towards the door. His legs toppled beneath him as he leapt out into the front yard. He sprinted through the mud and puddles, limbs flailing about as he ran in the general direction of the perimeter fence.

He spotted a familiar figure a few meters away.

“Derek!”

The older boy set down the rusty old bucket and caught Stiles as he collapsed into his arms.

Tears streaked Stiles’ cheeks as he babbled incomprehensibly, his body shaking violently from the violent sobs. His hot tears seeped through the soft cotton of Derek’s shirt, his fists weakly grabbing at the fabric as he collapsed against Derek’s broad chest.

Derek held him close and gently shushed him. He cradled the back of Stiles’ head and held him in the comfort of his strong arms. His other arm was wound around the boy’s slender waist, holding him upright as Stiles’ frail legs caved under him.

“I know,” Derek whispered. “I heard.”

Stiles let out a strained whimper and wailed, “I can’t go back. I can’t do it again.”

“We’ll be okay,” Derek promised. “We’ll get through this. Together.”

“It’s my fault,” Stiles cried.

“No, it’s not,” Derek said softly, holding the boy closer.

“Deucalion’s punishing me for the rebelling in the Districts. He thinks I’m encouraging them…. It’s my fault,” Stiles tried to explain between broken sobs. “He’s out to kill me.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this is a SUPER short chapter, but I have a reason for doing so. I set out the chapters so that they correlate between the two parts, e.g. what happens in chapter six of Prey happens at the same time as chapter six of My Boy. And so, there will me more content in chapter four of My Hope (the District 12 perspective). Nonetheless, I hope you enjoy it :)

The family were gathered around the lounge room, some were sitting, some were hunched over to lean on the chairs or back against the walls, and some were too anxious to stop moving – pacing up and down the length of the room instead.

Stiles sat down on the couch, staring at the varnished grain of the coffee table.

Derek sat next to him, holding his hand as he talked quietly to his uncle.

Peter was indecisive of where he should be, pacing back and forth across the room before leaning against the back of the couch for a few minutes only to return to his anxious strut about the confined space.

“Do you even count as a victor?” Peter asked Derek. “I mean, Stiles was the one who was announced as the victor, but you did survive the Games.”

“I don’t know,” Derek muttered weakly.

“He counts,” a quiet voice said from the doorway.

All eyes turned to Lydia.

Her eyes were red with tears and her cheeks glistened as she tried to deny the fact she was crying. Her heels clicked across the wooden floorboards as she stepped inside the room and produced a crisp white piece of paper. She held it up before herself and read the line of interest, “As the Capitol representative for District Twelve, you are to ensure that the victors – Peter Hale, Stiles Stilinski and Derek Hale – are all gathered and present for the Reaping Ceremony of the Quarter Quell.”

Her voice broke and her composure fractured as another wave of tears overcame her.

Melissa leapt from her seat and pulled Lydia into her arms. She cradled the girl to her chest and held her close as the she cried, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Melissa led her out of the room and upstairs to Lydia’s bedroom. Stiles heard the door shut behind them as Lydia began to cry and Melissa did her best to comfort her.

“Okay, so, it’s the three of us,” Derek reiterated. “However this turns out, we’re going into the Games with someone we can trust. It’s not much, but it’s something.”

“I know a lot of the previous victors,” Peter chimed in. “And a lot of them will be more than happy to forge alliances.”

“Alliances or not, you’ll have the District and the third victor. We’ll send any care packages that you’ll need,” Chris added from the corner of the room.

“No,” Derek refused softly. “Twelve just lost half their resources, things are going to be rough for the next few weeks. We can’t ask you all to forfeit what’s left of your rations to pay for a care package. We’ll be okay on our own.”

“And we’ll have sponsors,” Peter added. “A lot of people in the Capitol love the two of you and will be more than willing to help get you though it if you’re together or get you back to each other if you’re split up.”

Derek gave Stiles’ hand a gentle squeeze and said, “We’ll be okay.”

“We just have to wait until tomorrow to find out who’s going into the Games,” Chris muttered.

Stiles swallowed hard and looked up at them for the first time since the announcement and asked, “Who’s going to tell Isaac?”


	5. Chapter 5

When Stiles woke the next morning, he felt numb.

He moved by habit: dressing and saying good morning to everyone as he made his way down to the dining room.

Scott was back on his feet and moving about, slowly.

Stiles sat at the table and stared at the food that Peter set before him, but he didn’t eat it. He surrendered his breakfast to Isaac, who seemed reluctant to take it but, in the end, the younger boy’s hunger won him over. Stiles stayed where he sat at the end of the table, hanging his head and sitting in silence until he felt his father’s heavy hand fall to his shoulder and his warm husky voice whisper, “It’s time.”

Stiles sighed and rose to his feet.

They trudged down the streets, blending into the crowd of people that streamed out of their houses and into District Twelve. They all gathered in centre of town where armed peacekeepers stepped forwards to escort Lydia and the victors up to the stage.

They said their quick farewells, taking a moment to hug and say goodbye.

“Dad,” Stiles rasped.

“Yes?”

“Will you promise me something?” he whispered.

“Anything,” his father replied.

“Promise me you won’t salute. Promise me you won’t let anyone salute,” Stiles begged.

John swallowed hard and blinked back his tears before he nodded. “I promise.”

Stiles gave him one last quick hug before he joined Peter and Derek.

“Stiles, wait,” Scott called after him.

Stiles paused and turned back to his friend.

Scott carefully unfastened Allison’s locket from his neck and secured it around Stiles’.

“You need it more than I do,” Scott whispered and gave Stiles one last hug.

“Take care of them, Scott,” Stiles muttered. He pulled back and looked his friend in the eye as he added, “However this turns out, I’m glad you were my brother.”

“You too,” Scott replied.

Stiles nodded and turned. He made his way over to Derek’s side and followed the peacekeepers’ instructions as they were ushered onstage.

The mayor of District Twelve followed the others up onto the stage.

Stiles met the fierce gaze of the captain of the guard who stood at the far end of the stage. Stiles maintained his composure and returned the vicious glare with one of his own.

The lights of the cameras blinked on and the District fell quiet as the mayor stepped forward to present his annual speech about how the Hunger Games provided the Districts with peace through the sacrifice of tributes from each District. They are to participate in the Games in order to never repeat the rebellion and tragedy of District Thirteen or the Dark Days. He reiterated the new rules about how the Quarter Quell would be ‘celebrated’ by selecting the two tributes from the District’s surviving victors of the Games.

When he finished, Lydia stepped forward, strutting across the stage.

The caps of her heels tapped the plating of the podium. The noise was deafening as it pounded in Stiles’ ears and slammed the air from his lungs with every step she took.

She stopped before the microphone and smiled sweetly.

“I wish you all a happy Hunger Games,” she said, all emotion and sincerity lost in the repetition of the phrase. “And may the odds be in your favour.”

Silence fell over District Twelve.

Before her sat a large crystal bowl with three slivers of paper in them: their names.

She took a step forward and lowered her hand into the bowl. Her fingers grabbed the nearest piece of paper. She returned to the microphone and opened the folded card. Her smile dropped as her eyes rolled over the name.

Stiles saw her swallow hard as her glittering jade eyes looked at him with pain. Her lips quivered and tears welled in her eyes.

He knew she wanted to say sorry, but she had a job to do.

He nodded to her and she took a second to compose herself before reading the name.

“Stiles Stilinski.”

Stiles took a step forward and stood proud at the front of the stage.

Among the crowd, he heard the heartbroken cries of his family, of the citizens who knew him well, and the distinct wail of his baby girl.

Lydia stepped forward and pulled a second piece of card from the bowl. She unfolded it and readied herself to read it when a voice interrupted her.

“I volunteer.”

Stiles’ blood ran cold.

“No,” he gasped.

“Don’t be stupid,” he heard Peter hiss.

“I need to do this,” Derek growled before stepping up to Stiles side.

He took a hold of Stiles’ trembling hand and ran his thumb over the boy’s rigid knuckles.

Stiles glanced up at him, his eyes full of tears as he shook his head and whimpered, “No… Please, don’t.”

“We’re doing this together,” Derek whispered, cupping the back of Stiles’ hair and pressing a tender kiss to Stiles’ forehead.

Stiles blinked heavily, a glistening tear falling down his cheek.

“What about Laura?” Stiles asked him.

“She still has a family – she always will – and we’re going to make it out of this. We’ll see her again, I promise.”

He turned his eyes away from Stiles and nodded to Lydia.

She drew in a shaky breath and announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, the tributes of District Twelve: Stiles Stilinski and Derek Hale.”

The presentation was brought to an end as the Capitol anthem played them off.

The music echoed through the streets as Stiles and Derek stood proud atop the stage.

Stiles held his breath, hoping that nothing bad would happen, hoping no-one would salute.

The anthem died away.

The District was silent and still.

Stiles let out a sigh of relief.

They were guided into the Justice Building behind the stage. The large doors opened and the peacekeepers walked them straight through to the train platform.

Stiles froze, his eyes wide with panic.

“I didn’t get to say goodbye,” he croaked. “I get to say goodbye.”

He turned to run back into the building but two peacekeepers blocked his way.

Derek pulled him back before he could get in trouble, fighting the boy’s flailing limbs.

From beyond the withered doors of the Justice Building he could hear Scott, Isaac and his dad calling for him.

Tears blurred his vision as he screamed for them, his cries emptying his lungs and leaving them burning for air.

He clawed at Derek’s arms, thrashing about in a desperate attempt to break free of the stronger boy’s grip, but it was pointless.

The large doors of the Justice Building swung shut, his family disappearing behind them as they did.

“I’m sorry, Stiles,” Derek whispered, holding the boy close. “It’s how it is this time.”

Stiles felt Derek’s tears fall into the mess of his chestnut-brown hair atop of his head. He collapsed weakly into the older boy’s arms, sobbing violently as Derek lifted him off his feet and carried him onto the train.

He set Stiles down on one of the nearby couches and crouched before him, gently wiping away the tears that streaked his pale, mole-speckled cheeks.

Stiles’ lips quivered as he weakly uttered, “I didn’t get to say goodbye.”


	6. Chapter 6

The train took off smoothly, quickly accelerating to its top speed and gliding across the rails effortlessly.

“The ride will take a day,” Lydia muttered, elegantly weaving her way through the furniture and decorations as she spoke. “Just like last year, when we reach the Capitol, you will be taken to the Remake Centre where you will meet with your stylists and they will get you ready for the Opening Ceremony.”

Stiles stayed quiet.

Derek sat down on the couch beside him and welcomed the boy into his arms as Stiles slumped against the older boy’s side.

“You had a lot of designers offer to be your stylist,” Lydia announced. “But I made sure only one got through.”

Stiles’ eyes darted up to meet hers with a hopeful glimmer. “Deaton?”

Lydia smiled and nodded.

Stiles wanted to smile, but he couldn’t summon the energy to do so. His eyes dropped to Lydia’s elegant ring-adorned hands, or – more accurately – the thin piece of paper that she fidgeted with.

“Who was it?” Stiles asked.

“Huh?”

Stiles nodded towards the piece of paper. “Who was it?”

Lydia bit into her lip. She shuffled nervously on the spot.

“Lydia,” Stiles said warningly.

She sighed, glanced down at the paper slip and read the name, “Peter.”

Peter bowed his head. His dark blue eyes glimmered with pain as his lips twitched slightly.

“Don’t,” Derek interrupted his uncle. “I volunteered and that’s the end of it.”

Peter looked like he was about to argue but quickly silenced himself.

Stiles slowly rose from his seat, ignoring Derek’s worried gaze as he slowly made his way into another carriage.

He stumbled slightly as he entered the last carriage and dragged his feet over to the large couch that ran along the walls. He slumped down among the soft cushions, pulling his knees up to his chest. He pressed his forehead against his knobbly kneecaps and brought the fabric of his shirt up to his face, breathing deeply.

It smelt of home.

For a moment he swore he could hear Allison talking to him the way she had a year ago, her voice soft and comforting.

He opened his eyes for a second and looked about the carriage.

She wasn’t there. Of course she wasn’t.

The carriage was silent and he was alone.

He let out a heavy sigh and buried his face in his shirt again. He reached down to his chest and weakly ran his fingers over Allison’s necklace, feeling the defined carved silver ridges.

The large pistons hissed as the door slid open. Quiet footsteps moved across the carpeted floor as someone entered the room and crossed towards him.

“Are you okay?” Derek asked, keeping his voice low and quiet in fear of startling the boy.

Stiles shook his head.

Derek crossed the carriage and sat down next to Stiles. He didn’t bother asking why; he already knew the answer: they had left their family, they had left their home, and they were being forced back into the Games and now faced a fight that they may not come back from – and this time, they wanted to survive it; they had a reason to come home.

“What are we going to do?” Stiles asked weakly.

“Hey, look at me,” Derek whispered, gently tugging at Stiles’ shirt in order to coax the boy out of his hiding place. “I promise you, I’m not leaving you alone in that arena. We’ll get through this. Together.”

“Derek, we aren’t just up against other tributes,” Stiles reminded him. “We’re up against other victors… People who won because they killed without hesitation.”

“Peter knows a lot of them, he can talk to old friends and forge alliances. No-one wants to be pulled back into the Games, especially against other victors, and you’ve made your stance clear: you don’t kill and you care for your friends. That’s going to go a long way.”

“I did kill someone,” Stiles muttered.

Derek flinched at the boy’s bluntness. “Kate doesn’t count.”

“It does to me. And what’s the point in having friends and alliances when they’re going to get killed? I don’t want anyone else to die because of me.”

Derek glanced down, watching how Stiles absentmindedly grabbed Allison’s necklace.

“What happened to Allison isn’t your fault,” Derek said softly.

“She’d still be alive if it wasn’t for me,” Stiles pointed out. “Ennis was out to kill me. She died because of me.”

A heavy blanket of silence settled over them.

Derek sat back against the plush cushions and dug his hand into his pocket. He pulled a small, silver object out and began to fiddle with it. He turned it over in his fingers and ran the ball of his thumb against the smooth, worn down surface.

“It was my mother’s wedding ring,” he started slowly. “Peter took it with him when he left Two. He’s been holding onto it for years, but he gave it to me last week.”

Stiles dared to look at the older boy. He watched as Derek’s pale aventurine eyes glimmered with the pain he had tried to hide for years. He slowly reached across and set his hand down atop of Derek’s, giving it a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

“I’ve been thinking about this for a long time,” Derek continued. “And the longer I spend with you, the more I want to ask you one thing. I’ve been alone for a long time, but then I met you and you made me feel normal again. You gave me hope and you gave me purpose. You gave a home and a family and you gave me all of your love. You have given me so much and I am so grateful for everything, but I was struggling to find a way to show you how much it meant to me… I was going to propose to you the other day so that you had something to come home to after the Games, but then the peacekeepers from the Capitol came, Scott got hurt and Deucalion made the announcement. I just can’t find the right time.”

Derek rose from the couch and knelt before Stiles. “I promise, one day, I’ll propose more romantically, but I guess this will do for now… I don’t care if they never let us go through with it or if we don’t live long enough for it to happen; I love you and I swear to you that I will always be by your side, ‘till death do us part. Stiles Stilinski, will you marry me?”

Stiles blinked back heavy tears. His lips quivered breathlessly, his words escaping him as he nodded.

“Yes?” Derek said hopefully.

“Yes,” Stiles repeated, a bright smile lighting up his face as he nodded more frantically. He paused, laying his hand over Derek’s and looking up to meet the older boy’s gaze. “But I want you to keep the ring.”

Derek’s brow creased with confusion.

“It’s your mother’s ring after all. And if you really want me to have it then you can give it to me when we get married or when you propose next time, but I want you to have it when we go into that arena. That way we’ll both have something silver,” Stiles explained, pointing at the pendant that sat against his rigid collarbone.

Derek smiled sweetly and whispered, “Okay.”

The train drove into the small tunnel beneath one of the District walls, immersing the carriage in darkness.

Stiles gasped and flinched at the booming sound of a howling rush of air. His breathing grew shallow as he reached for Derek’s hand.

Derek gently shushed him, trying to keep Stiles calm as the small lights along the windows lit up.

“It’s okay,” Derek assured him. “I’m right here.”

They emerged from the dark tunnel with a thundering rush of air.

Stiles flinched.

Derek pulled him close, pressing a tender kiss to the boy’s temple.

Stiles began to settle. His breathing slowed as he sank into the warmth of Derek’s hold.

“I’m okay,” Stiles whispered, letting Derek sit him back down on the couch.

They turned their eyes to the haunting scene outside the large windows of the carriage.

Stiles’ heart sank into his stomach. Bile rose into his throat and he choked on his frail breaths.

Both Derek and Stiles crawled across the couch to get a better look out of the window.

“The hell is going on?” Stiles whispered.

The District walls were patrolled by armed guards, the turrets lit up and a bright spotlight rolling across the ground. The train tracks were guarded by two chain-link fences with barbwire coiled around to the top. Debris, litter and small animals were caught among the wire.

Heavily armoured jeeps rumbled along the desolate dirt roads, stirring up clouds of dirt as they ran alongside the train.

Peacekeepers, covered from head-to-toe in plated armour and armed with large rifles, stood in rows along the roads and the fences, marching back and forth menacingly.

“It looks like a prison,” Derek muttered.

“No,” Stiles said weakly as he shook his head. His dark eyes glittered with pain as he read the large painted letters above the tunnelling gate they had entered through. “It’s District Nine.”

 

Stiles bolted upright in the bed. His wail tore at his throat and left him breathless. His lungs burnt painfully for air as hot tears trailed down his cheeks. He thrashed about, kicking at the sheets that entangled his legs and dragged at his limbs like heavy chains or the hands of the damned. The friction of the starchy cotton burnt at his skin.

He screamed louder, tears coursing his cheeks as he failed to free himself or shake the lingering illusions of his nightmares.

He stilled and took a second, looking around as he reminded himself where he was. The images of the hands that grabbed at his legs or chains that bound him to the bed began to fade.

The door slid open and someone bolted into the room.

“It’s okay,” Stiles muttered. “I’m okay. It was just a nightmare.”

Derek sighed, his bright eyes full of worry as he sat down on the edge of the bed.

“It’s okay,” Derek assured him. “I get them too.”

Stiles crept forward and leant against Derek’s side, resting his head on the older boy’s shoulder. Derek wrapped his arm around the boy’s waist, holding him close. He gently brushed the glistening tears off Stiles’ pale cheeks with his free hand.

“Where were you?” Stiles whimpered, his voice quiet and strained.

Derek rested his cheek atop Stiles’ head and nuzzled his face into the boy’s unkempt locks. “I couldn’t sleep and I didn’t want to wake you so I went into the next carriage to talk to Lydia.”

“Can you please stay with me?”

Derek nodded and crawled up onto the bed. He shuffled across the mattress and laid down beside Stiles. He rolled onto his side and pulled the smaller boy back against the warmth and security of his chest.

He nuzzled his face into the curve of Stiles’ shoulder and whispered, “Always.”


	7. Chapter 7

Some things never change, like the nauseous knot of anxiety in his stomach as he sat, alone, in the cold, sterile room, staring at the pale grey walls and white linoleum flooring. Yet again, he had been escorted to the Remake Centre as soon as they had arrived in the Capitol. He and Derek had been separated and taken to different rooms. He had been stripped and redressed in nothing more than a thin robe while the prep team scrubbed his pale skin red raw to ensure that every grain of dirt, dust and coal had been removed from his pores. He had been plucked, preened and groomed. They had washed and combed his hair, trimming the shaggy chestnut locks slightly but leaving it as the rugged mess that made Stiles comfortable – for which he was slightly thankful; the last thing he wanted right now was to be stripped of his dignity and identity. And when they were done they had left him there, cold and alone, to wait for his stylist.

The door rattled slightly as it opened.

Stiles’ eyes darted up, a soft smile lifting his cheeks as he looked at the familiar friendly face.

His round features were kind, his dark skin glowing in the bright light. His moustache and goatee were neatly groomed and his warm chocolate eyes looked at Stiles with unmistakable sympathy.

“It’s good to see you again, Stiles,” Deaton greeted. “Although I wish it were under better circumstances.”

“I’m just happy to see you,” Stiles admitted.

“How are you feeling?” Deaton asked.

“I’ve been better,” Stiles replied. “And it doesn’t help that I’m dressed in only a robe.”

“Then let’s get you dressed, shall we?”

 

“Final touches,” Deaton said quietly as he and Derek’s designer carried over two halo-like crowns that were made of dark barbed twigs with strands of purple flowers coiled around them.

Stiles squinted at the flowers, trying to make out what they were.

He flinched as Deaton brought them closer.

“Don’t worry,” Deaton said calmly. “The wolfsbane is plastic and completely harmless.”

Stiles drew in a shaky breath and nodded, bowing his head slightly and letting Deaton set the halo atop his tousled brown locks.

Deaton took a step back to look the boys over.

They were dressed in dusty black suits that were made to look like they were covered in soot and coal dust. Beneath the jackets, they wore silver vests and cloudy grey shirts with ornate purple and gold stitching. A pale lilac tie was wound around their throats, tied neatly but hanging a little loosely around the collar so that Stiles could breathe. The outfit was completed by a pair of dull grey pants that shimmered slightly because of the silver pinstripes, but were far from spectacular.

“It’s a lot less extravagant than last year,” Stiles teased.

Deaton smirked and held up a small remote.

Stiles’ eyes grew wide with shock as he instantly regretted his words. “The fire?”

Deaton smirked and nodded. He passed the remote to Derek who slid it beneath the thick vines of the white roses that were coiled around the black bars of the chariots.

“It will only light up your jackets,” Deaton explained. “And, Derek, don’t worry; it’s an artificial flame that isn’t hot and won’t hurt.”

The older boy nodded.

“When you’re out in the open, wait until you’re half way to the City Circle and then press the button,” Deaton explained. “The suits will ignite and the flames should last the duration of the President’s speech.”

“I have one last thing I’d like to add if I may,” Derek’s stylist interjected.

Deaton raised his brow in surprise but he made no attempt to stop her.

She stepped forward and took Stiles’ left hand in her own. She slid a small silver ring around his finger and whispered, “It might look a little weird if only one of you is wearing a ring.”

Stiles smiled and thanked her.

She stepped back, glancing over her shoulder for Deaton’s nod of approval.

Stiles turned his attention to the other tributes.

The tributes from District One – a boy and a girl – were dressed in flowing black outfits that were decorated with small diamantes and glittering lights that charted out constellations. The female tribute’s dress shimmered like the night sky, the small lights and gems glittering like fireflies on an onyx pool. She looked gorgeous.

Her fellow tribute, however, wore the colour like it was death. His menacing scowl and cruel eyes made the stunning outfit look like a god had torn it from the sky and draped it around his shoulders to show off his power. He was a victor, there was no doubting it.

Behind them were the tributes from District Two: a young girl who looked to be no older than eighteen and an older woman who carried her age with grace. They were dressed in elegant white chiffon dresses that was woven in strands around a stunning web of jewels and beads that sat on thin chains and accentuated their curves, tinkling and shimmering as they moved.

A few chariots down were the tributes from District Five, another two women who were a lot more elderly than the other tributes. They were dressed in elegant dresses that reflected their cultural heritage and looked gorgeous. The silky navy blue dresses sat freely on their slim bodies, decorated by stitched silver and white flowers and ferns. Atop their slender shoulders were heavy capes that matched their dresses and were lined with pastel blue silk. The edges were embroidered with thin silver wire and small strands of blue fibres that slayed out like sparks, a homage to their District’s resource: power.

They were talking to the two younger tributes from District Six. They looked like brother and sister, both with sandy blonde hair and bright eyes. The girl was younger and dressed in a pale blue corset that was laced together with a thick black ribbon. It was accompanied by a silver skirt that seemed to be too small for her comfort.

Stiles sighed, disheartened that her designers had treated her like a doll – to the extent that they had plaited her short blonde hair into two small braids and smeared her face with makeup. He wished he could help her in some way, but there was nothing he could do.

Her brother was dressed in a billowing white shirt and grey shorts. He wore a pale blue bowtie that matched his sister’s corset. He was standing a little closer, just enough that Stiles could just make out the finer detail of faint grey pinstripe stitching.

A few carriages down the line, the tribute from District Nine was dressed in a free-flowing outfit. The pale beige fabric of the girl’s dress flowed like a cape from her shoulders but melted into the skirt of her gown. The only feature that broke that illusion was the beaded corset that hugged her slim torso.

Her dark curls had escaped their tie and hung around her face, the rest of her hair was held back by a wreath of moulded sheets of metal and made to look like a halo of golden leaves.

She was a beautiful young woman with innocent features and wide worried eyes as she stood alone on the chariot, watching the elevator doors for her fellow tribute to arrive.

Stiles’ heart skipped a beat.

It was as if he were staring at a ghost, the ghost of Allison.

Stiles felt a familiar warmth as Derek slid his hand into Stiles’ and laced their fingers together. He gave it a gentle squeeze, pulling Stiles back to reality.

“I look stupid,” the boy in the chariot in front of him muttered.

He was dressed in a flamboyant magenta jacket with coat tails that billowed out behind him. The coat was lined with a thin sheet of green silk that melted into the shadows of the rippling fabric. Beneath the coat, he wore a pair of short gold shorts and a matching vest that was covered in heavy jewels of varying shades of pink and purple.

The outfit itself didn’t look to bad, but their designer hadn’t factored in their tributes appearances when they were designing it – obviously they had hoped for one of the higher Districts and had been bumped down to Eleven and had lacked the care to change their design.

The young boy who wore it – Mason, his fellow tribute had called him – had dark brown skin that looks flushed and sickly beneath the vibrant colours.

“I don’t think you look that bad,” Derek reassured him.

“Not as good as Marin,” Mason whined, as he gestured toward his fellow tribute.

“No-one looks as good as me,” she teased.

She was right; her outfit was more elegant: a heavily jewelled corset that was accentuated by a rippling magenta and green skirt that cascaded from her waist. It was designed to look like the petals of a vibrant rose as it burst from the bud and bloomed brilliantly.

“I’d disagree,” a young man chimed in.

All eyes turned to him.

The newcomer was a young boy – a few years younger than Stiles and Derek – with a rounded face and soft featured. Judging by his pale beige outfit, he was the second tribute from District Nine that the young girl had been waiting for.

“I think you look great,” he said confidently as he walked past the group and made his way over to his own chariot.

Mason’s cheeks were flushed with a warm glow as he bowed his head bashfully.

The conversation dropped after that.

Mason’s dark eyes glittered as he looked up through his eyelashes and watched the boy leave, the free-flowing fabric of his cape-like coat trailing behind him like a ghost.

Stiles tried to smother his laughter, snorting slightly as he watched Mason’s face light up.

Derek gently nudged him.

“Don’t laugh,” the older boy scolded. “I looked at you the same way.”

Stiles leant back slightly, frowning in confusion and suspicion as he eyed Derek.

“What?” Derek asked, seemingly offended.

“Really?” Stiles muttered in disbelief. “I thought you were eyeing me up as an easy target, like prey.”

Mason spun around, eyes wide and alert as he tried to catch up on the conversation. “Huh?”

This time, they all chuckled but they were interrupted as the event manager instructed the tributes to mount their carriages and for the stylists to make any final changes.

Stiles drew in a shaky breath and tried to calm his racing heartbeat.

“Don’t worry, Stiles,” Deaton said calmly. “You’ll do great. Just smile and wave to the crowd.”

Stiles nodded and offered the man a friendly smile.

The chariots began to move, filing out into the glaring light of the Capitol.

“Derek,” Stiles muttered.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t let go,” he begged.

Derek tightened his grip on Stiles’ hand and whispered, “Never.”

Their chariot lurched forward as the horses trotted towards the opening of the bay. The two of them blinked heavily as they were towed into the radiant light of the bright city.

Stile let out the breath he had been holding and tilted his chin up proudly.

He tried to breathe easy, straining the muscles in his neck in order to hold his head upright. His heartbeat pounded in his hears like a war drum, muffling but not quite drowning out the roaring screams of the crowd. He raised his arm and waved to the oceans of inhuman faces, his hand trembling as he did. His smile was weak and obviously fake, but he didn’t have the strength or courage that Derek or Allison had.

The chariot rattled on down the street.

Derek gave Stiles’ hand a gentle squeeze.

Stiles turned to look at him, his heart skipping a beat as he melted into the comfort of the older boy’s glittering aventurine eyes. His fear seemed to subside when he saw Derek’s calm smile.

“Ready?” the older boy whispered.

Stiles nodded.

Derek reached into the railing and pressed the button on the small remote.

There was a roaring rush of wind as vibrant flames engulfed their suits and danced around them.

Golden sparks flittered through the air as the coal-dusted fabric of their jackets peeled away. The flickering sparks glittered around them as the burning strips of fabric morphed into crisp white roses and small daisies.

The flowers fell from the chariot and were scattered across the street.

Their dark jackets were replaced with faded white ones, the fine details of gold and purple matching the rest of their ensemble.

“I was wrong,” Stiles muttered over the shocked gasps and eager cheers of the crowd. “It’s as extravagant as last year.”

“It’s better,” Derek corrected, catching one of the roses that fell away from the glittering flames. He tucked it into the pinhole of Stiles’ suit and whispered, “this time, it’s all three of us: you, me and Allison.”

Stiles let his face brighten with a genuine smile.

The crowd roared and the cameras turned to them, their carriage – their faces – appearing on every screen around them as the Ceremony was broadcasted live across the entirety of Beacon Hills.

The chariots slowed as they reached the City Circle, circling around the open space as they were presented to Deucalion. The man stood atop his podium and looked down upon them with his usual judgmental gaze and a false smile.

As the clattering wheels of the chariot pulled to a halt, Stiles felt his knees tremble.

Deucalion’s threatening words returned to him, slamming into him hard enough that it knocked the air from his lungs. His mind was overrun by the memory of the small white rose as it fell from his chest and struck the dusty floorboards.

Stiles glanced down. His heart sunk as the small rose fell from his button hole, the translucent white petals consumed by darkness as it fell.

It struck the ground with a heavy thud, the sound going straight through Stiles’ hollow body.

He lifted his eyes to Deucalion, meeting the man’s cold eyes.

President Deucalion stepped up to the microphone and began his speech, “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Opening Ceremony of the seventy-fifth annual Hunger Games. Please, join me in welcoming the previous victors and the tributes of the Quarter Quell.”

The crowd roared with applause, but it all seemed so distant and drained. To Stiles, the world was silent.

Deucalion continued his speech but Stiles heard none of it.

When the president had finished with his formalities, the chariots turned and drove on to the Training Centre.

Once they were under shelter and away from prying eyes, Stiles stepped – or, more accurately, toppled – off the chariot. He hit the ground with a heavy thud.

Derek pounced off the back of their chariot and dropped to Stiles’ side. He helped the boy up onto his knees and spoke softly to him.

Stiles heaved in shaky breaths. He braced his weight on his hands, blood rushing to his head as bile rose into his throat. A cold sweat rolled over him, making him quiver as the icy breeze clawed at his spine.

Around them, he could hear the quiet chatter of the other tributes, some whispering in worry and others laughing at the sight.

“Breathe, Stiles,” Derek whispered softly, rubbing soothing circles into the younger boy’s back.

“Here,” came another voice, an elderly woman. She passed Derek something. “They are meant for the horses, but they should help.”

“Open your mouth,” Derek instructed.

Stiles blinked heavily and did as he was told.

Derek fed Stiles the small sugar cube.

Stiles felt the sweet treat dissolve on his tongue. He began to draw deep breaths through his nose and steady his uneven breathing.

“Is this about what he said to you the other day?” Derek asked quietly.

Stiles blinked back heavy tears and nodded.

“Stiles, what did he say to you?”

Stiles shook his head furiously. He held back his sobs, his frail shoulders shaking violently.

“Okay,” Derek whispered, accepting that he wasn’t going to get an answer. “Let’s get you upstairs, shall we?”

Derek helped him up to his feet and guided him towards the elevator. Once inside, Derek pressed the button for the penthouse and stood back. He wrapped his arm around Stiles’ waist and held him close.

As the doors began to close a small figure darted into the elevator.

“Sorry,” she whispered, reaching across to press the button for her desired floor, the one reserved for District Four.

She took a step back and waited as the door closed. She seemed uncomfortable and stood with her arms wound around her body, trying to cover up her rather revealing outfit.

Her designer had taken District Four’s fishing to a whole new level, dressing their tributes up in what looked like bathers – the young girl in a salmon pink bikini – with a draping tunic that was made out of fishing nets. The netting on the girl’s dress was pulled up into a Grecian collar and clung to her slim body. It fanned out around her waist into a billowing skirt with a slit up one leg that exposed her olive skin. The outfit was completed by a pair of salmon pink platform heels that she struggled to stay upright on.

The designer had focused on small details too, using makeup to give the illusion of scales on her shoulders.

She shuffled from one foot to the other, nervously fiddling with her fingers and rubbing at her arms as she tried to hug herself and cover up her exposed body.

Stiles shrugged off his jacket.

“Here,” Stiles offered, holding out the large white suit jacket for the young girl.

She smiled sweetly and thanked him, turning around and sliding her arms into the sleeves.

Stiles loosened his pale lilac tie and unfastened the knot. He wound it around the young girl’s slender waist and tied it in place like a belt, holding the jacket shut over her body.

“Are you sure your stylist won’t mind?” she asked, slightly panicked.

“Nah, Deaton won’t care,” Stiles assured her.

Her shoulders dropped and she let out a soft sigh. “Thank you.”

The elevator hummed as it glided to a stop. The doors opened to her floor.

She offered him a sweet smile and thanked him once again before leaving.

The doors slid shut behind her and the elevator continued its ascent.

Stiles turned to face Derek, meeting the older boy’s gaze as his beautiful aventurine eyes glittered with pride and admiration. The older boy’s cheeks dipped into dimples as he smiled at Stiles.

“What?” Stiles asked, his voice cracking slightly as he squinted suspiciously at Derek.

“Nothing,” Derek whispered, reaching for Stiles’ hand and pulling him close. “I love you.”

“I love you too, now what are you smirking about?”

“I just think it’s nice that you helped her,” Derek replied.

“If this is going to turn out to be a lecture about how we’re going to need to make alliances, I don’t want to hear it,” Stiles warned. “I don’t want any alliances. I don’t want anyone to get hurt for me. I just…” He paused, swallowing hard. “I just want you. Only you.”

“Okay,” Derek said softly, wrapping his arms around Stiles and holding him against the warmth of his chest. He pressed a tender kiss to the crown of the boy’s head and whispered, “Just us.”

The elevator slowed, the doors opened and Derek reluctantly relinquished his hold on Stiles.

They made their way into the large open space of the apartment.

Stiles quickly scurried towards the bedrooms to change. He stripped off the rest of his suit and the halo before rifling through the small wardrobe until he found a pair of baggy navy tracksuit pants and a pale grey shirt. He turned to leave the room, stopping in the doorway for a second.

In the other room, he could hear Peter and Lydia talking to Derek about how good they did and how incredible they looked and the gossip that had passed through the crowd. When they quietened down, Derek told them about Stiles’ condition and gave them a quick explanation as to why Stiles was ‘being quiet’ before making his way to the other room to change.

Stiles dared to leave the bedroom, making his way back into the open space and stepping down into the sunken lounge area. He slumped down on the large couch and stared into oblivion.

A minute or so later, Derek emerged from the other room, dressed in a dull green Henley and a pair of black jeans.

Stiles glanced up, noticing how the dark denim hugged Derek’s curves.

Derek made his way over to the small buffet set up in the corner and picked up a bowl of chocolate-dipped strawberries. He turned and walked towards the couch, catching Stiles’ lingering gaze.

He raised his brow at the boy and got a mischievous smirk in response.

Derek rolled his eyes and sat down next to Stiles. He set the bowl of strawberries between them and laid one arm around Stiles’ slender shoulders.

The boy shuffled closer and curled up into Derek’s embrace, picking up one of the strawberries and nibbling at it as he did.

The large television screen blinked on and the mandatory viewing of the broadcast began. The screen on the wall lit up as the Capitol anthem blared through the speakers.

They began by replaying the president’s address and the announcement of the new rules for the Quarter Quell. After that, they began to replay the Reapings across the Districts.

‘District 1’ lit up the bottom of the screen.

“Donovan Donati,” Peter explained as the image of the young man flashed across the screen and he stepped forward on the stage. “He’s the victor of the seventy-first Hunger Games and a real asshole.”

There was no mistaking why Donovan had survived: being a Career, he had the best training and had gone into the arena with no fear.

“He slaughtered everyone in that arena as soon as the countdown ended,” Peter added. “He made no alliances, went out on his own and won the Games in three days. He’s skilled with swords, throwing knives and almost anything with a blade.”

Stiles was too distracted by the young man’s cruel glare to listen to the announcement of his fellow tribute, the young woman who had worn the gorgeous starry dress.

He shook himself from the daze as the recording changed to ‘District 2’.

“That’s Corrine. She likes to go by the ‘Desert Wolf’ because she survived the desert plain arena and hunted the tributes like a true predator,” Peter explained as the camera focused on the face of a middle aged woman who carried herself with grace and elegance. “She won the Games after mine: the fifty-seventh Games. She’d be about thirty-four years old now, but that doesn’t mean she is any less of a threat. She has a preference for a crossbow but she can skilfully use any weapon.”

“You seem to know a lot about her, more than just from observation,” Derek said accusingly.

“It’s amazing what someone will confess when they have their legs around you in bed,” Peter remarked nonchalantly.

“Oh God,” Lydia cried form the other end of the room. “I’m going to be sick.”

Peter chuckled but, before he had a chance to further annoy Lydia, the camera turned to the second tribute of District Two, the young girl who looked to be eighteen-years-old.

“Paige,” Derek gasped.

“You know her?” Stiles asked.

“Paige Krasikeva. She’s an old friend,” Derek explained. “She’s a civilian.”

“Well, all the other victors from Two have died of age, moved District, taken their own lives, or…” Peter’s voice fell short.

“Or what?” Derek asked.

“Gerard,” Stiles whispered.

Derek swallowed hard, remembering the horrifying experiences of last year’s victory tour and the executions.

“They had to resort to selecting civilians as tributes,” Peter explained.

District Three’s first tribute, Sean Walcott, seemed like a normal boy. He had won the seventieth Hunger Games, but neither Peter nor Stiles couldn’t remember how. But as he stepped forward on the stage and flashed a smile at the crowd, Stiles flinched; his teeth were not only a revolting yellow, but were sharpened to a razor-like point and reinforced by implanted teeth of the same design.

His fellow tribute was a middle-aged woman with flaxen blonde hair who had the composed glare of a victor but the heart-broken eyes of a mother who was being forced to leave her children.

District Four’s tributes were next.

“That’s Geyer,” Peter explained.

Stiles held his breath. He knew that man; he had seen him before. He had been standing atop the podium last year, looking down upon Stiles as he spoke about the boy he had lost: Liam.

“He’s a good man and a good friend of mine,” Peter continued. “He won the fifty-ninth Games and is skilled with a trident. He’s a brilliant swimmer and a good man to have on your side. Typically the tributes from Four join the Careers, but Geyer was one of the first who went against the grain and allied himself with a kid from Twelve. The girl with him, Hayden, was romantically involved with the boy who went into the arena with you two.”

“Liam,” Stiles corrected. If he had to put up with Peter’s speeches, the man could at least have the decency to use the boy’s name.

Stiles kept his eyes on Hayden, the girl they met in the elevator. She looked to be fourteen-years-old and was terrified when her name was called.

“She’s a civilian and doesn’t have a chance, but Geyer is determined to do what he can to keep her alive.”

Peter was interrupted as the broadcast continued, changing to the Reaping Ceremony of District Five.

“Satomi Ito,” Peter said proudly. “She used to be a good friend of your mother, Derek. Despite her age, she is very skilled and is not one to be underestimated. She won the fortieth Hunger Games at the age of seventeen. The same goes for her fellow tribute, Noshiko Yukimura.”

“Kira’s mother,” Stiles said weakly.

A heavy blanket of silence settled over them.

Derek took Stiles’ hand in his own, gently rolling the ball of his thumb across Stiles’ rigid knuckles.

Their tender moment was interrupted as ‘District 6’ lit up the bottom of the screen.

“The boy is Brett Talbot,” Peter continued his explanation. “He won the Games six years ago. Brilliant young man, very kind but a little introverted at times. It probably doesn’t help that he watched his best friend die in the arena and then had to mentor his little sister, Lori, in the seventy-third Games. She emerged victorious and now they’re being forced back into the Games.”

District’s Seven’s tributes were a civilian and a victor but Peter didn’t know much about them.

“District Eight,” Peter said, sipping at a glass of crystal clear water. He frowned at it, his narrowed glare trying to will it to change into alcohol in order to numb him to this situation.

Stiles ignored him and focused on the broadcast.

The cameras zoomed in on the male tribute: a strongly built man with a demeanour of a victor. He had defined brow ridges and hollow cheeks, making him look like the kind of monster that would haunt your nightmares. But Stiles was drawn to his eyes, the dark pecan depths swirling with fear and pain.

“The man is called the Mute,” Peter announced. “That’s not a nickname we gave him or anything, that’s what he likes to be called. The poor guy came out of the Games fifteen years ago and hasn’t said a word since. Brilliant axe skills, really intimidating, and – to be honest – a little freaky, but not as much as his fellow tribute, Meredith. She was fifteen when she won the sixty-sixth Games and they messed her up. She came out of the arena, shaved off her hair and began to tell people that she could hear the screams of the dead.”

Peter turned and crossed the apartment towards the tray of glistening crystal decanters and golden whiskey. He reached for a glass.

Lydia smacked his hand.

Peter hissed and snatched his hand back. He rubbed at the back of his hand and made his way back to the couch, muttering obscenities under his breath.

Lydia brought him over and apple.

He took it from her and murmured, “Thank you.”

He turned his attention back to the screen and bit into the crunchy flesh of the apple.

“District Nine,” he said around the mouthful of bittersweet juice. “Corey Bryant, victor of the seventy-second Games. Learnt the skills of detailed painting through his father’s bakery and used said skills as camouflage. He painted his body and hid for the whole week while everyone else killed each other.”

“He also has a thing for Mason,” Derek added.

Stiles tried to hide his smirk, snorting slightly as he failed to smother his laughter.

Peter frowned in confusion but continued to chew on his apple. He shrugged and turned back to the screen. “The girl is a civilian. Her name is Marie-Jeanne Valet and, according to Corey, she’s pretty skilled with crossbows, bows and arrows, spears, and every weapon under the sun. She lives with her half-brother and can’t claim the tessera so she hunts to keep her family alive.”

“Sound familiar?” Lydia called from the other end of the couch.

Derek and Peter looked at her, brown creased with confusion.

“Seriously? Am I the only one?” she asked. “She’s a civilian who hunts with a bow and arrow to keep her family safe. Not to mention she looks and acts just like-”

“Allison,” Stiles finished.

All eyes turned to Stiles.

“Who are the girls from District Ten?” Stiles asked, shifting the conversation.

“They’re both civilians, Tracy and … I don’t know,” Peter admitted. “No-one knows anything about them.”

Stiles knew the rest: Mason – a fifteen-year-old civilian – and Marin – the victor of the sixty-fourth Hunger Games – from District Eleven, and finally Derek and himself from Twelve.

After that, they replayed the Opening Ceremony, parading the tributes through the streets in extravagant outfits. Stiles felt sick to his stomach, ignoring Deucalion’s speech for the second time that day.

The broadcast finished.

“Tomorrow you start training,” Peter said after a moment of silence. “Just like last year, you’ll head down to the underground gym in the morning. Use your time to refine your skills, study others, learn something new, and try and make some friends.”

“I don’t want allies in the arena,” Stiles said firmly, his jaw tense and hot tears brewing in his eyes as his mind filed through the memories of Kira and Allison.

“You two have made quite an impression over the past year,” Peter pointed out. “So, whether you like it or not, people are going to be your allies. They are going to stand with you and fight for you.”

“And die because of me,” Stiles added.

“It’s not the same as last year, Stiles,” Peter argued. “These people aren’t kids plucked from a crowd, they’re victors.”

“Peter,” Lydia said firmly. “That’s enough.”

Peter growled, muttering to himself as he rose from the couch and began to pick at the buffet. Derek followed, speaking lowly as he scolded his uncle.

Stiles didn’t move. He sat still and stared at the blank screen, hoping that the oblivion that existed beyond the dark pixels would consume him.

“Stiles,” Lydia said softly, craning her neck to look at the boy’s face. Her bright jade eyes glimmered with worry. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Stiles lied. “I’m fine.”

“You know Peter and I are going to do everything in our power to get you and Derek out of that arena alive,” Lydia promised.

“I know,” Stiles muttered. “But I want you and Peter to promise me something.”

“Anything,”

“Derek comes first. Promise me that if things go wrong you will get Derek out of there, even if it means leaving me to die,” Stiles said bluntly. “Promise me that.”

Lydia nodded and whispered, “I promise, but you’re coming out of this alive too.”

Stiles shook his head. He drew in a deep breath and let out a disheartened sigh. “There’s no way I’m going to survive this… There’s no way I’m coming out of that arena alive this time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Interested in the reasoning behind the outfits or just want to look at some pictures to help visualise them better? Check out the links below (there were too many pictures and links to post here, so I complied them into three posts):  
> Part One (Districts 1-4): http://celestialvoid-fanfiction.tumblr.com/post/154493593031/outfit-inspiration-for-the-opening-ceremony-of  
> Part Two (Districts 5-8): http://celestialvoid-fanfiction.tumblr.com/post/154493598281/outfit-inspiration-for-the-opening-ceremony-of  
> Part Three (Districts 9-12): http://celestialvoid-fanfiction.tumblr.com/post/154493608696/outfit-inspiration-for-the-opening-ceremony-of


	8. Chapter 8

Stiles lingered by the doorway of the training room, fidgeting with his fingers as he watched the others move between the work stations, sparring mats, and the simulation room.

His eyes were drawn to the young boy sitting at one of the workbenches and refining his camouflage skills.

Stiles let out a sigh and crossed the training room floor, ignoring the thumping of weapons against mannequins and bodies against the sparring mats. The confined space stank of sweat. Pained grunts and frustrated cries filled the air.

Stiles sat down next to Corey and watched him work.

The younger boy’s dark brown eyes were swimming with shadows and the heavy bags beneath them gave everything away.

“You didn’t get much sleep, did you?” Stiles whispered.

He watched as the boy mixed together small blotches of paint and finished off the final finer details of his current piece of work, making his arm look like the pale bark of a birch tree with eye-like ridges and small patched flaking to reveal deep umber flesh.

“Is it that obvious?” the boy asked, disheartened.

“It’s a familiar look,” Stiles replied. He rolled up his sleeve and offered Corey his arm. “You need a new canvas.”

“I’m not good at making friends,” Corey said abruptly.

“I’m not trying to be your friend, I’m just trying to pass time,” Stiles explained.

“You’re not going to train?” the boy asked as he dipped his brush into the paint and began to work on Stiles’ arm.

“What’s the point?” Stiles muttered. “I don’t stand a chance anyway.”

“You better cut that shit out,” Corey warned. “The man I loved died because he stood up for your cause. A lot of people believe in you, and if you’ve given up on yourself then so be it, but don’t give up on them.”

Stiles bowed his head in shame. He sat quietly, watching the brush glide across his arm and leave a trail of colour on his skin.

After a moment of silence, he dared to ask, “What was his name?”

“Lucas,” Corey replied. “He was… he was the only one in my District who had similar… preferences.”

“Preferences?” Stiles repeated, slightly confused.

“You know…” He glanced over his shoulder at the nearby sparring mat, watching as Derek and the Mute exchanged blows.

Stiles couldn’t help but let his eyes linger on the muscles that rippled beneath his sweat-glistening olive flesh. He licked his lips and forced himself to look back at Corey.

Stiles followed his gaze across the room to where Marin was teaching Mason how to fight with a variety of weapons. She taught him basic moves: how to block and strike or parry with a sword, how to string and fire a bow, how to throw throwing knives or daggers, and basic sparring moves.

Mason wasn’t a killer or a fighter – far from it – but he seemed to pick it up quickly.

Stiles couldn’t help but grin as he looked back to Corey and watched as the younger boy’s eyes glimmered as a soft smile lifted his cheeks.

“Preferences,” Stiles muttered.

Corey snapped back to reality and turned his attention back to painting Stiles’ arm, adding the final details before sitting back to look at his master piece.

An image had begun to emerge: a forest scape set against a starry sky. The moon was full and lit up the distinct silhouettes of trees and the figure of a dark wolf that moved between them.

“Wow,” a familiar voice said breathlessly. “That’s incredible.”

The boys spun around to see Mason standing behind them.

“Hey, how are you doing?” Stiles greeted.

“Marin’s giving me a break. I’m not much of a fighter,” Mason admitted.

“I think you’re doing great,” Stiles assured him. “Besides, there are many ways you can survive without having to fight. Camouflage, for example.”

Mason’s dark eyes twinkled with hope as he looked at Corey and asked, “Could you teach me?”

“Don’t let your chance slide by,” Stiles whispered to Corey. “I won’t give up hope if you don’t.”

Stiles smiled and rose from his seat. He patted Corey’s shoulder and left them to their own devices. He made his way across the room towards the sparring mats, where a sweat-soaked Derek stepped down and patted himself down with a towel.

“How are you doing?” Derek said between rugged pants.

“I got my arm painted,” Stiles chirped, showing Derek the gorgeous art that covered his pale limb.

Derek smiled and pulled the boy into his arms, pressing a kiss to the boy’s forehead.

“I talked to Peter this morning. Apparently the Gamemakers are rushing the Games. Our Assessments are tonight,” Derek whispered.

“Can they do that?” Stiles croaked, fear weighing down his chest.

“They can, and they did.” Derek leant back and looked Stiles in the eye. “It’ll be okay. Even if we don’t get a high score, people have seen what we did in the arena. We have people on our side.”

“I don’t want allies,” Stiles said lowly and firmly.

“Stiles, people are going to fight for you whether you want them to or not,” Derek pointed out. “No-one’s asking you to be their ally, but having friends might not be a bad thing.”

Stiles felt his heart sink into his stomach. His breathing was hollow as he rasped, “I don’t know if I can do that. I don’t know if I can let anyone else in.”

“You don’t have to let them in,” Derek said softly. “Just don’t shut them out.”

Stiles nuzzled his face into Derek’s shirt.

Derek wrapped his arm around the smaller boy’s shoulders and held him close.

“You stink,” Stiles muttered, but made no attempt to pull away.

Derek chuckled and pulled Stiles closer.

The younger boy relaxed and sank into Derek’s hold, feeling safe in his strong embrace.

Stiles pulled back slightly and stepped aside.

“What are you planning on doing?” Derek asked.

“I have no idea,” Stiles admitted. “I might practice fighting some more, but I don’t quite feel up for it.”

“If you don’t do it for the training, then do it to show that you’re not as weak and defenceless as you seem to be.”

“I’ll only humiliate myself,” Stiles muttered. “Just like I did last year.”

“Last year?” Derek squawked with disbelief. “You didn’t humiliate yourself.” His voice dropped to something sultrily as he muttered, “In fact, I think you did quite an impressive job.”

Stiles giggled and buried his face in Derek’s shirt. After a second, he sighed and stepped back. He made his way over to the hologram training room. He paused before the racks of weapons and picked a gleaming silver spear off the small hooks.

Stiles made his way into the room and stepped up onto the podium.

He tried the best he could to ignore the curious gazes of the other tributes.

The room lit up in a lattice pattern, the beams of light lowering over him as they scanned the room and reset the program.

It began.

Icy blue figures charged towards him. He spun the pole about, disarming the near figures and knocking them to the ground. The bodies shattered and the remnants scattered across the smooth white tiles.

A few other figures charged in a line.

Stiles held the pole out in front of him and shoved it forward, skewering them. He planted his foot in the gut of the leader, pulled the pole back, and tore apart the silhouettes. His felt his stomach twist and churn as pixilated blue chunks rained over his body, tickling his skin with an icy touch.

Figure after figure charged at him until there was only one left, standing at the back of the room.

This was his chance.

Stiles adjusted his grip on the pole and hurled it at the glowing figure.

The icy blue silhouette became human. The body jerked as the spear impaled her chest.

Her dark brown eyes were misted with tears as her slender fingers coiled around the thick pole that jutted out of her chest.

“Stiles,” a familiar voice rasped weakly.

Stiles felt a chill roll down his spine.

“No,” Stiles croaked as she drew the spear out of her body.

Streams of thick blood gushed from the wound.

Stiles froze, watching on helplessly as Allison’s bloody body collapsed to the ground. His lips trembled as he swallowed hard, trying to gulp down mouthfuls of cold air.

He could smell the bitter metallic blood that gushed from her gaping wound and poured over her hands.

Her breathing was shallow, frail wisps of air passed her trembling lips. Allison shuddered, coughing and gasping for air. Streams of blood dripped across her lips. Her quivering body weakened as she fell still on the floor, her skin was cold and ghostly pale. Her hand fell to the side, striking the ground and dissolving into icy blue cubes that spilled across the floor. Bright blue pixels rolled like waves and crashed against the toe of his boot. The rest of her body disintegrated into tides of glowing cubes.

Stiles stood still for a second, waiting for the pixels to fade and the simulation to end.

One by one, the gathered crowd started to clap. The noise building until the gym was filled with the roaring thunder of their applause.

The sound rolled straight through him, thumping against his ribs and emptying his lungs.

Cold tears rolled down his pale cheeks as his eyes lingered where Allison’s body had laid.

He felt strong arms pull him close and guide him out of the room. They pulled him into a warm embrace, holding him there and keeping him secure as the boy swayed weakly and muttered the same things over and over again.

“I’m so sorry,” Stiles whispered, his voice scratching at his throat as he stared into the blank void, the image of her face burnt into his eyes. “This is all my fault. It’s my fault.”

 

One by one, the tributes disappeared from the training room and completed their Assessments.

Stiles watched on from the corner, numb, as they left. He watched as the Careers confidently strutted into the room to complete their Assessment. He watched as Geyer, Hayden, the Mute, Meredith, Corey, Marin and finally Mason – who seemed utterly terrified – all took their turns.

The training room grew quieter and quieter as they left.

“Next tribute: District Twelve, Stiles Stilinski,” the guard announced.

Stiles rose to his feet.

Derek pressed a tender kiss to the boy’s temple and whispered, “Knock them dead.”

Stiles swallowed hard and followed the peacekeeper out of the underground gym and down the hall to the Assessment room. He stepped into the large room, his mind spinning with thoughts as the dull grey walls seemed to close in around him.

How was he going to impress the Gamemakers this time? He couldn't throw a spear at them like he did last year – especially if he crumbles in to a crying mess every time he does – and simple combat skills wouldn't compare to the skillsets other the other tributes, let alone be enough to impress the Gamemakers.

They expected him to fight like he did in the Games or to show of that spark within him that had started the revolution across the Districts.

He had to find a way to top the expectations they had already set for him.

He stepped into the centre of the room, noticing the beautiful swirls of colour that Mason had left across the rough surface of the concrete – his talent was an example his ability to learn quickly, showing the skills and techniques that Corey had taught him in the training room earlier that day.

Stiles stepped around it and looked at it from a better angle.

His heart skipped a beat as he realised who it was.

"Allison," he whispered breathlessly.

"Mr Stilinski, you have ten minutes to complete your Assessment," the Gamemakers announced. 

But he didn't hear them; his eyes were focused on the painting.

It was the perfect image of her, laid out in elegance and surrounded by vibrant blossoms: white roses, pale daisies, veined lilies, budding lavender, and strands of wolfsbane. Her hair remained in the elegant braided halo that had stands of daisies and wolfsbane threaded into it. A small bouquet of flowers laid beneath her slender hands and her face was peaceful.

There was no blood, not like there was in the memories and nightmares that haunted Stiles.

Stiles swallowed hard, hot tears brewing in his eyes as he looked down at the elegant curves of the words that Mason had written at the bottom: _Remember the Fallen_.

"Mr Stilinski," one of the Gamemakers called.

Tears fell across Stiles' cheek as he turned his burning glare towards the men.

They repeated the statement and told him to begin.

Stiles stormed over to a mannequin and pulled it from its place. He dumped it on the ground, fetching the wire that was used for snares and what remained in the bowl of black paint.

He coiled the wire around the limbs of the mannequin and positioned it on its hands and knees like an animal.

He took another stand of wire and bent it into two pointed ears that drooped ever so slightly. He fastened it around the mannequin's head before retrieving another strand of wire and coiled it into an elongated snout that he fastened to the feature-less face, dehumanising it further. He pulled out more wire and coiled it into a thick tail that looked a little bushy. He pulled it out at the end and coiled it around the mannequin’s waist, leaving the bunched wires to hang like a boar’s tail. 

He reached across the floor for the bowl of paint. He brought it over to the hog-like mannequin, keeping his actions hidden from the Assessors as they peered down at him and watched on with curiosity.

Stiles dipped his fingers into the cool black paint, using the back of his hand to wipe away the tears of rage that blurred his vision as he smeared the paint across the back of the mannequin and spelt out one word, one name.

Content with his creation, he stormed over to the far wall and collected the metallic spear. 

He raised his hands over his head and shoved the spear into the mannequin’s side, impaling the lifeless plastic corpse.

He twisted the pole in his hand and turned it around so the Gamemakers could read what he had smeared across the boar’s side.

Stiles drew in a deep breath and turned to face the Assessors. He narrowed his glare at them and bowed mockingly before marching towards the guarded exit, leaving the Gamemakers in shock as they stared down at the impaled, modelled ‘boar’ with a name branded across its side: DEUCALION.

 

Stiles sat in the frame of the large bay window, looking out across the glowing lights of the Capitol. He rested his head back against the cool metal, pulling the baggy fabric of his jacket around his slender body. His fingers felt stiff as he ran his fingertips across the moulded silver of Allison’s necklace.

“Congratulations, Stiles,” Peter called from across the living room. “The Gamemakers have alerted the Capitol guard to the fact that you might me a ‘credible threat to the president’. Care to explain why?”

“I showed them what I could do,” Stiles muttered weakly.

“And what exactly was that?” Peter persisted, eager to earn an answer.

Stiles tuned to look at him. His cheeks rose into a cynical smile as he bluntly replied, “I’ve gotten really good at spearing pigs.”

Derek laughed as he made his way into the room. “And you should have seen it, it was a work of art.”

Stiles ignored them as Derek did his best to explain what Stiles had done.

He could hear Peter roaring with laughter, followed by a heavy thud as the man fell off the couch.

Lydia crossed the room, ignoring the man and sitting down next to Stiles.

“Are you okay?” she asked quietly, levelling her bright hazel eyes with Stiles’.

The boy shook his head.

“What’s going on?” Lydia whispered encouragingly as she sat down in the window across from Stiles.

“I can’t even defend myself,” Stiles muttered. “I can’t fight… Every time I throw a spear, it goes through her.”

“Stiles, what happened to Allison wasn’t your fault,” Lydia said softly.

“Everyone keeps saying that, but it was. It was my fault. Ennis was after me. She got hit trying to shield me. She died saving me. How is that not my fault?”

“Because she made that choice,” Lydia said firmly, keeping her voice firm and level. “There is nothing you should have some to change what happened. Allison made her choice. And I think she deserves more than to have her memory tainted by your relentless self-blame. You’re a survivor and she’s a hero, that’s how I see it.”

Lydia rose to her feet swiftly and strutted away.

The television blinked on and the broadcast began.

Stiles stayed where he was, staring out across the glow of the city as he listened to the scores.

District One’s male tribute, Donovan Donati, scored 9 – a score that was expected of a Career – while his fellow tribute scored a 7. Corrine scored another 9, but Paige scored a 5 – earning some rather rude comments from the disturbingly cheery announcers. Sean Walcott and his fellow tribute from District Three both scored an 8, as expected of Careers. Hayden scored a 5 and Geyer scored a 6. Satomi and Noshiko both scored a 6, leaving the commentators to gossip about their chances and what skills they must have if they can achieve such a high score ‘at such an age’. Next was Brett and Lori, who scored an 8 and a 5. Corey scored another 8 and Marie-Jeanne scored a 9. Both tributes from District Seven scored as low as a 4. Meredith and the Mute both scored a 6, leaving Stiles to wonder why – Mute was terrifying and skilled and Meredith seemed as if she knew things others didn’t, then again it might be a case of a low scoring tribute coming out on top in the arena. Corey scored another 8 and Marie-Jeanne scored a 9. District Ten’s Tracy scored a 5 and her fellow tribute scored a 4. Marin and Mason both scored 8, leaving the announcers stunned.

“District Twelve’s Derek Hale,” they continued.

Derek and Stiles exchanged confused glances; Stiles went first so his score should have been announced first.

Stiles looked at the screen.

Derek had scored a 9 and he couldn’t help but smile. But Derek’s portrait quickly faded, replaced by Stiles’ solemn face.

Down the bottom read ‘District 12: Stiles Stilinski’.

The announcers drew it out, making the suspense painful as they reflected on Stiles’ previous score and how well he did in the arena of the seventy-fourth Games, before they finally announced the score.

10.

 “Ten?” Stiles muttered weakly.

“A perfect score,” Peter said cheerily, as if he was congratulating Stiles. “You really are a credible threat.”

“No, I’m not,” Stiles rasped, his voice breaking as fear flooded his body. “I’m not a fighter. I’m not a threat. I’m just a kid who can’t defend himself.”


	9. Chapter 9

Everyone was gathered backstage, designers bustling about as they readied the outfits for their debuts, mentors and other tributes talking quietly as they discussed what they were going to talk about during their interviews, and the tributes filing off one by one for their interviews.

“Next up: District Two, Desert Wolf,” the stage manager announced.

Corrine strutted by in her elegant silk dress, the rippling fabric shifting between shades of indigo and violet. The asymmetrical strap sat atop her shoulder, laying like a sash across half her torso and trickling down into a billowing skirt that pooled around her feet. The exposed part of the torso what made of a skin-toned bodice that was embroidered with flowers and leaves that were the same colour as the rest of the dress. To balance out the silk strap of the asymmetrical strap, a slit ran up the opposing side of her skirt and exposed her slender legs and drew Peter’s attention.

Derek rolled his eyes at his uncle as the sound of Corrine’s heels tapped against the polished floor grew more distant.

“Even after eighteen years, she still looks gorgeous,” Peter mused.

“You do realise your girlfriend is going to be trying to kill us,” Derek reminded him.

“Don’t worry,” Peter said, still refusing to take his eyes off Corrine. “My money’s on you two winning. I’m just taking in the sights while I can.”

“You’re disgusting,” Derek scolded his uncle.

Stiles glanced down the line, his eyes drawn to Paige.

She wore a gorgeous pastel pink gown with diamond studs clustered around the V-neck collar that dipped down over the girl’s pale collarbone. The straps were thick up to her shoulders where they broke away into four strings of glittering diamond beads that crossed her shoulder blades and covered the exposed skin of her open back. The skirt was floor length and pooled around her legs, the fabric rippling as it gathered around her legs. A thin sheet of glittering chiffon covered the soft pink fabric, shimmering in the shifting light.

Further down the line, Hayden stood in a dress of a similar colour. This time, her designer had taken into consideration her modesty, discomfort and need for movement. She was dressed in a cocktail-length underdress that was made of a thick, moulded fabric made to look like rippling waves. The scooped collar sat on the edges of her shoulders and the sleeves hung down slightly. The rest of her body was covered by a long draping sheet of pastel pink fabric that was pinned in place above her collarbone and hung down like a split skirt. The billowing fabric was gathered around her waist and held in place by a thick silver belt.

Geyer stood beside her, dressed in a salmon pink suit that no-one but him would be able to pull off. The bold colour of his suit was dulled by the crisp white dress shirt he wore.

He was talking to Satomi and Noshiko, both dressed in elegant, bold gowns.

Satomi’s dress was a sheen pink, strapless gown with a hem that was painted with shades of orange, red, brown and black. While still it looked like an oriental floral design but the colours melted together and flickered like fire as it moved.

Beside her, Noshiko was dressed in a soft beige dress that was covered in colourful floral designs that seemed simple and yet detailed at the same time. The thick straps of the shoulder dipped into an open collar, leaving a small section of her chest exposed. The open panels were held in place by the thick sash that was wound around her thin waist.

All the other tributes were dressed in elegant outfits and led down the hall, one by one, by the stage crew as they made their way onto the stage for their interviews.

“Why can’t I wear a normal suit like everyone else?” Stiles asked, disheartened, as he looked down at his outfit.

He wore a glaring white suit, the jacket made of a fabric that had a detailed silver vine-like pattern. The collar of his jacket, tabs of his shirt collar and the rounded knot of his silk white tie were all bedazzled with heavy silver beads and glistening crystals. He wore a white vest that was slightly tight around his gut, something that wasn’t factored in because of the multiple layers of fabric.

“I feel ridiculous,” Stiles admitted.

“You look ridiculous,” Marin teased from across the room.

She was dressed in an elegant steel grey dress with tones of purple in it. The strapless corset hugged her curves and showed off her sleek figure. The shiny silk was drawn across her corset at a sloping angle and pulled into her waist, where the fabric was gathered in tiered ripples that accentuated the split down the side of her dress.

Stiles stared down Deaton and gestured to Marin, not speaking but hoping that his expression conveyed what he was thinking.

Deaton sighed and looked at Stiles with a soft expression as he explained, “Deucalion heard about your engagement and he wants you to announce it during your interview. It’s not my design, and if it was, I would have at least made it fit you. But at least they’ve left me to deal with the smaller details and final touches.”

Deaton held up a small box and opened it to show the small silver ring that Stiles had worn during the Opening Ceremony.

“So, Deucalion’s making you dress him like… that?” Marin confirmed.

“I didn’t have a choice,” Deaton muttered, looking at Stiles apologetically.

“Then why is Derek wearing a normal suit?” Stiles objected.

“Because, you’re going on first,” Deaton said. “And you have the fire this time.”

“I don’t want the fire. I’m not coordinated or graceful like Allison was and it’ll just be yet another thing I need to remember to talk about,” Stiles gasped, panicked. “I don’t think you understand: Deucalion has his eyes on me and if I step out of line – even in the slightest – then he’s going to think that I’m encouraging the rebellions in the Districts and he’s going to go after my family.”

“Stiles,” Derek said softly. “In the small time I’ve know your family, I’ve noticed that your defiance and strength is something you learnt from your dad, and if anyone threatens his family then he’s going to fight. And I’ve been on enough hunting trips with Scott and Chris to know that they are more than capable and skilled with their weapons. Chris, Scott and your dad won’t let anything happen to anyone.”

“Even so, I’m not Allison. I don’t have the coordination or grace that she had,” Stiles argued. “If you set me on fire I might just collapse on the floor and burn.”

“It’s okay,” Derek cooed. “You look great and you will do brilliantly in your interview.”

“I can’t do this,” Stiles muttered.

“List the things you have to talk about,” Peter instructed encouragingly.

“Our engagement, my score, my victory and the Games last year, while also not saying anything that would spark rebellion _and_ finding a way to spin around and light myself on fire,” Stiles listed, growing more and more agitated as he went on. He looked at Derek and Peter and repeated, “I can’t do this.”

“You’ll be fine. Danny will help you keep the conversation going,” Peter assured him. “It’s just like last year.”

“I nearly passed out last year,” Stiles argued.

“Next up: District Eleven, Marin Morrell,” the stage manager called.

Marin sighed and rose to her feet. She crossed the small distance and pressed a soft kiss to Stiles’ cheek. She looked him in the eye and whispered, “You’ll do great. And if it’s Deucalion’s fault you’re wearing that hideous thing, make him pay for it.”

She turned swiftly and strutted towards the large double doors at the end of the hallway.

The doors opened and she stepped out onto the stage to begin her interview.

Deaton hovered around Stiles, fixing the finer details of the outfit while muttering his discontent with the fact that he wasn’t allowed to design Stiles’ outfit.

“Next up: District Twelve, Stiles Stilinski,” the stage manager announced.

Stiles let out a shaky breath and straightened his back.

“Engagement, score, Games, fire,” Stiles muttered under his breath.

He clenched his fists and unfurled them, trying to steady his trembling hands.

He stepped up to the door, his breath rolling through his hollow body.

The doors swung open and Stiles stepped out onto the stage. He strutted forward with more confidence than he actually had.

His thigh ached – muscles throbbing and straining around his scar – and he knew he was limping slightly.

The crowd seemed to notice too, their excitement dying slightly as some of them turned to whisper to each other or made sounds of pity.

Stiles grit his teeth and worked through the pain, waving to the crowd as he crossed the brightly lit stage and joined Danny.

“Hello, Stiles,” Danny greeted with a kind smile. “You look fabulous today, doesn’t he?”

The crowd cheered loudly.

“Now, why such a glamourous outfit?” Danny prompted. “Is there a special occasion?”

“Yes,” Stiles replied. He felt himself relax slightly, grateful that Danny was leading him into the things he needed to talk about. “I have some good news to share with you and the whole of Beacon Hills.”

“You mean something better than your perfect score two years in a row?”

“Bigger and better,” Stiles said joyfully, playing along with Danny’s excitement.

Danny turned to the crowd, his face contorting into an over exaggerated expression of shock and excitement.

The crowd cheered and squealed, the suspense killing them.

Stiles couldn’t barely hear their soft whispers and protests against the agonising wait. He knew his hearing had been damaged by the jaberjays and cannon fires that had shaken him during the seventy-fourth Games, but he had never been able to tell how bad it was. It wasn’t gone, but it was dulled.

“Do tell,” Danny encouraged, drawing Stiles back to reality.

“Derek and I are engaged,” Stiles announced proudly.

“Engaged?” Danny repeated, stunned but overjoyed.

“Yes and we’re hoping to live long enough to get married. Last year’s Games brought us together and gave us a chance at love in a place and time we’d thought would make it impossible.” It felt like a rehearsed speech, but he had to do it. “And yet, here we are.”

“Here you are,” Danny said fondly. “Talking about last year, Allison – God rest her soul – brought the spark of fire to the interviews but you missed out. _Please_ tell me you brought it with you this time.”

“I did,” Stiles assured him. “Would you like to see?”

“Yes,” Danny pleaded, taking a step back.

Stiles steadied himself on his feet and unbuttoned the top layer of his jacket as well as the vest.

He glanced out into the crowd, catching Deaton’s gaze.

The man smiled reassuringly and nodded.

Stiles drew in a shaky breath and began to turn on the spot.

Crackling flames engulfed his slender limbs, igniting his clothes and rolling across him in a roaring blaze. Sparks flew about as the fabric peeled away.

He stood still, ignoring the familiar hiss and the crackle of dying tendrils of fire. He pushed back the memories of the wave of fire in the arena – the burning heat that had seared his flesh as he leapt from tree to tree. He tried to supress the recent images of the infernos that had consumed District Twelve and destroyed his childhood home.

He looked up, his eyes draw out to an empty void in the crowd. The flickering sparks rolled over him as he met a set of familiar dark eyes.

He stumbled slightly as he pulled to a halt.

He couldn’t see the rest of her, her silhouette blending into the darkness beyond the stage lights, but he knew those eyes. He hadn’t seen them in years, but they were unmistakable; they were the first eyes he had ever seen, the eyes that would calm him down after every nightmare or injury, the eyes that would look at him with love and pride every day, the eyes that had glittered with confusion as she lost her memories, and had looked at him with a silent apology the day she passed.

Stiles held his breath, swallowing hard.

He couldn’t look away.

The uncertain depths of her chocolate brown eyes wavered with emotions as she watched him: shimmering as they drifted between fear, pride, amazement, joy, and sorrow.

Stiles felt lips tremble slightly as his breathless lungs burnt, desperate for air.

“Mum…” he whispered, unheard by others.

The flames died away, the twinkling sparks diminishing.

Stiles glanced down at himself. His clothes had changed: his pressed pants had taken on an onyx colouring and the bulk of his clothes had burnt away, leaving only a black dress shirt with a small strand of delicate jewels along the edge of the collar. The first few buttons were undone, leaving the gleaming pendant of the Allison’s necklace exposed.

He glanced back up at the audience, searching the faces for his mother’s.

She was gone.

The crowd roared with applause.

The sheer volume of the thundering ovation hit Stiles, thumping against the side of his head and leaving him shaken and dulled his senses.

Danny took a step forward, waiting until the crowd quietened before speaking.

“That was incredible!” Danny cheered, the crowd applauded and howled in agreeance.

The clapping died down.

There was a moment of quiet.

“I’m sorry, Stiles, but our time is coming to an end,” Danny announced. “I’m so glad to see you again and I wish it was under better circumstances. Is there any else you’d like to say?”

“Yeah, there’s just one last thing I’d like to say,” Stiles rasped. “There are no winners, no-one ever _wins_ the Games. There are only survivors. We struggled and we survived, but we are not winners, we are not victors.”

“Thank you,” Danny said genuinely.

Stiles shook Danny’s hand and walked up to the higher section of the stage to stand by Marin’s side.

“You did a good job,” she said quietly.

“Thanks,” he whispered.

“Now, ladies and gentlemen,” Danny continued. “Please welcome to the stage the other half of the heart throb duo, Derek Hale.”

The crowd cheered as the doors opened and the final tribute of the night stepped out onto the stage.

Derek was dressed in a similar black suit to the one that Stiles was now wearing and smiled brilliantly as he crossed the glossy floor and waved at the crowd.

They waited for the crowd to settle before Danny started the interview.

“Derek, I just want to start by saying congratulations on your engagement,” Danny said with a genuine smile.

“Thank you, I couldn’t be happier,” Derek replied.

“And this time last year you stepped out onto this stage for another District,” Danny pointed out, more so for the sake of the audience than Derek. “To go from the luxury, comfort and familiarity of Two to the unknown in District Twelve. What has that transition been like for you?”

“It went surprisingly well. District Twelve has a kind and loving community and our family is supportive and they took me in as if I had always been there. Already being a patchwork family, it was nice to be taken in and loved as part of their family. And in the past year there’s been two additions to the family: myself and our daughter, Laura Allison.”

“A daughter?” Danny gasped, clapping his hands against his cheeks as he couldn’t help but be overcome with a smile of joy.

“Yes,” Derek said with a beaming smile. “Her father died in one of the mines and her mother passed on the day she was born.”

Stiles felt his heart sink into his stomach.

Delicate fingers brushed against the palm of his hand as Marin slipped her hand into his and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

Derek turned his gaze to the cameras, his face filling the screens all around the room. “Baby girl, if you’re watching this. We’ll find a way to come home. We love you and we’re not going to leave you alone in this world. Laura, we’re going to fight for you.”

The crowd began to howl and shout in protest. Among the jumbled cries were distinct voices that screamed, “Let them go home,” or “Call off the Games.”

Danny ushered Derek back towards the other tributes.

Derek smiled sweetly as he stood by Stiles and took his hand.

One by one, the tributes took a hold of each other’s hands or laced their fingers together. They stood, united, and raised their hands high into the air.

The rioting crowd grew louder. They screamed, shouted and howled as the gathered crowd became a stampede and a few citizens dared to start fights with the armed guards. People rose from their seats and began to throw things at the peacekeepers who guarded the stage.

The broadcast was cut short.

The stage and surrounding screens blacked out and darkness consumed the auditorium.

Stage staff and peacekeepers guided the tributes backstage and towards the elevators.

Once they were in the hallway, Deaton and Peter joined them.

Stiles grabbed Peter by the front of his shirt. He spun him around and used the momentum to hurl the man back against the solid brick wall.

Peter hit it with a painful thud, letting out a soft whimper as he collapsed to the ground.

“You told him to say that, didn’t you?” Stiles howled. “Did you even stop to think about what would happen? We’re here because Deucalion thinks I started the rebellions and you’re throwing fuel onto the fire! People are dying, Peter, and you just put Laura in line of fire!”

Derek rested his hand on Stiles’ shoulder.

“Hey,” he whispered as he pulled the boy away from his uncle. “You know that our family won’t let anyone touch her.”

“Then they’ll be in danger,” Stiles replied, his voice weak as hot tears brewed in his eyes and blurred his vision. “Derek, I can’t lose my dad. I love Laura with all my heart. And I love Scott and Melissa, and Chris and Isaac too, but my dad is _my dad_. I can’t lose my dad.”

Derek pulled Stiles into his arms and pressed a tender kiss to the crown of his head.

“They’ll be okay,” he promised. “Let’s get you upstairs.”

Deaton muttered something about taking Peter up to their floor in a separate elevator so that Stiles could breathe.

Derek agreed and led Stiles towards the elevators.

They stepped inside and pressed the button for their floor.

Stiles kept his eyes on the scarlet carpet of the elevator floor, but soon found that his gaze was drawn to the rustling fabric nearby. The sheet of onyx cotton was pooled on the floor, the skirt flowing freely around its wearer’s hips. Stiles followed the ripples up to the rest of the girl’s outfit, taking in the sight of the ornate collar made of woven golden thread and shimmering beads. The oriental floral design dipped down over her chest and, at the peak, melted into frail chains of beads that hung down to her slender waist.

Stiles glanced up to her face.

He knew her: Meredith Walker, District Eight.

Her short hair was permed and curled to frame her head, but that didn’t draw attention away from the slight quiver of her lips as she muttered a flurry of words under her breath. Her dark brown eyes were wide with fear – a clear indication of the trauma she had gone through in the Games.

Beside her, the towering brute known as the Mute was fussing over his beaded collar, similar in design to Meredith’s but black.

The man growled and pulled at it.

“Let me,” Stiles whispered as he stepped forward. He reached up and unfastened the two small buttons along the Mute’s broad shoulders that held the beaded collar in place.

“Is that better?” Stiles asked as he took a step back.

The Mute nodded and signed, ‘Thank you.’

Stiles smiled, moving his hand in swift gestures as he signed, ‘You’re welcome.’

The Mute looked at him, stunned as he made out the words, ‘You know sign?’

‘Yes,’ Stiles replied. ‘My friend’s mother taught me.’

The elevator slowed to a stop with a soft hum. The doors opened to the floor reserved for the tributes of District Eight.

Meredith scurried into their apartment and the Mute followed. He paused and turned back to Stiles, making quick gestures as he signed, ‘Thank you, you are a good man. I wish you all the best.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, there are a lot of outfits, so if you're interested you can find the photos compiled into the posts on my Tumblr:  
> Districts 1-4: http://celestialvoid-fanfiction.tumblr.com/post/154845444121/outfits-inspiration-for-the-interviews-in-hunted  
> Districts 5-8: http://celestialvoid-fanfiction.tumblr.com/post/154845448716/outfits-inspiration-for-the-interviews-in-hunted  
> Districts 9-12: http://celestialvoid-fanfiction.tumblr.com/post/154845456451/outfits-inspiration-for-the-interviews-in-hunted


	10. Chapter 10

Stiles rubbed at his forearm, feeling the swollen welt where the needle had pierced the skin and the tracker had been inserted beneath the pale flesh of his scar. His muscles ached and protested against the intrusion.

His heart pounded against his ribs as he stared at the gleaming Perspex of the elevator tube. It was intimidating and cold. It loomed over him with the promise of death, pain and everything else that awaited him in the arena above.

“Are you okay?” Deaton asked as he stepped up to Stiles’ side.

“Not really,” Stiles admitted as he turned to face Deaton. “To be honest, I’m terrified.”

Deaton gently tapped Stiles’ chest, pushing the cool silver pendant of Allison’s necklace against the boy’s collarbone. “Just remember she’s there with you. She’ll keep you safe.”

Stiles nodded solemnly.

“The material of your suit is designed for both hot and cold temperatures, so be ready for a desert environment or something tropical,” Deaton explained, looking down at Stiles’ fitted outfit.

It was a black jumpsuit with silver seams, stitching and minor details. There were sections of grey padding that were spread across his chest, hips and gauntlets. It had a few pockets, but nothing big enough to hold supplies. The shoulders were covered in bright white panels, but they lacked District numbers. The fabric was thin but breathable. It hugged Stiles’ slender body and made him look like he had some shape and muscle to his frail body. A pair of thick padded boots with thin rubber soles were strapped around his feet. A small sheath was fastened around his calf, a small hunting knife secured in its place.

“It looks like the sleeves are detachable, but I would suggest against doing that unless you absolutely need to,” Deaton continued. “The nights will get cold and you’ll need to maintain your body warmth.”

Stiles nodded.

Hot tears welled in his eyes. He blinked them back, trying to clear his vision. His voice trembled slightly as he said, “I liked what you did to the suit for my interview.”

Deaton smiled.

“I’m sorry if I overreacted, I was just really scared that they would think it was a sign or rebellion and hurt the people I love, you included,” Stiles explained. “I just want to thank you for everything you’ve done, you made me, Allison and Derek look incredible and you’ve gone out of our way to make sure that I’m comfortable in the worst situations. You’ve been more than a designer and a stylist, you’ve been my friend. And I wanted to thank you for that, because I may never get the chance to.”

“Don’t,” Deaton warned, his voice soft as his dark eyes looked at Stiles with pride and an unmatchable warmth.

Deaton smiled sweetly and reached forward, pulling the boy into his arms.

Stiles grabbed fistfuls of his jacket, holding him close as he buried his face into the curve of the man’s shoulder.

“ _Tributes, take your places. One minute until launch,_ ” a cold mechanical voice announced, interrupting their peaceful moment.

Deaton relinquished his hold on the boy, smiling at the boy as Stiles took a step back.

Stiles let out a shaky breath and took a step towards the launch tube. He stepped onto the small plate. The clear tube slid down around him, hissing as it caged him and locked into place.

His heart began to pound against the jail bars of his ribs, desperate to break through. His breath came in short, broken gasps. His lips trembled and his breath quivered. He gulped down air, desperately trying to soothe his panicked breathing and thundering heartbeat.

“Stiles, listen to me,” Deaton said softly, his voice was muffled slightly by the barrier. “I know you’re scared and I know you’re still struggling to come to terms with what happened last year, but you need to survive this; you need to go home to your little girl.”

“ _Thirty seconds until launch_.”

“I know you’re afraid that if you let people fight with you they’re going to die, but you needed to come to terms with the reality that everyone’s going to die,” Deaton continued. “And in that arena, you’re going to need friends. I’m not saying you have to band together as the ultimate fighting force and be best friends, but, Stiles, _please_ let them help you. People want to fight with you. All you have to do is let them.”

“ _Twenty seconds_.”

“Good luck,” Deaton said.

“It’s been nice knowing you,” Stiles muttered, his voice breaking under the strain of his anxiety. He was starting to feel the familiar suffocating sense of claustrophobia.

“ _Ten seconds_.”

There was a thundering crash as peacekeepers stormed into the room.

“Deaton,” Stiles called, panicked. He heaved in shallow breaths, fear coursing his veins as the armed guards circled Deaton.

“ _Nine. Eight. Seven.”_

“Stiles,” Deaton shouted over the speakers. “You have to fight this time. Don’t let Deucalion rule your life with fear.”

The peacekeeper behind him drew his gun and cocked it. He lifted the barrel and aimed it at the back of Deaton’s head.

“No,” Stiles rasped, thumping his hands against the clear Perspex. “Deaton, no.”

 _“Six. Five_. _Four.”_

The gun fired.

The thundering bang tore through Stiles’ chest, making him feel hollow and numb. It rattled his bones and knocked his breath from his lungs.

Blood splattered across the Perspex of the launch tube.

Stiles thumped his fists against the barrier, his scream tearing at his throat as he howled Deaton’s name.

 _“Three. Two_. _One._ ”

“No!” Stiles wailed.

“ _Launch_.”

The plate below him shook slightly as he began to rise. He dropped to his knees and pressed his hands against the Perspex, desperately trying to slide back down. His vision was streaked by tears but he could make out the sight of the peacekeepers collecting Deaton’s limp body and carrying him away.

He watched as the colour drained from Deaton’s dark skin as his head lolled about lifelessly. Splatters of blood trailed behind them, the crimson droplets sprayed across the crisp white armour of the peacekeepers. The sight alone was enough to make Stiles sick, bringing up memories of the thick copper smell and making it hard for him to breathe. He gulped down thick saliva, stumbling slightly as he rose to his feet.

Tears rolled down his face as they sank out of view.

Stiles’ shoulders heaved with rugged breaths as the plate beneath his feet rose. He rubbed at his face, clearing away the tears as rage coursed through his blood. He tried to steady his breathing, gasping mouthfuls of the thin air as he rose higher and higher.

A small trap door opened up above him.

He squinted against the glaring light of the world beyond.

He blinked rapidly, letting his eyes adjust to the light.

His breathing was shallow and ragged. His heart was pounding painfully against his chest.

The sky was lit by bold numbers as they counted down, loud beats signalling the seconds left.

60 seconds.

Tributes around him braced themselves against the edge of their podiums, ready to dive into the glittering sapphire pool of water in front of them.

“Derek,” he gasped, looking around the arena.

The older boy was nowhere to be seen.

40 seconds.

Deaton’s words rang in his head, the sound of the gunshot haunting him as the scene played over and over again.

30 seconds.

“Stiles,” Geyer called from the podium next to the boy.

Stiles turned to look at him.

“Can you swim?” the man asked.

“Kind of,” Stiles admitted.

Stiles looked across the arena, meeting the vicious glare of the male tribute from District One, Donovan.

The teen’s face contorted into a wicked smile as he pointed at the boy and then ran his thumb across his throat, making the motion of slitting Stiles’ throat.

Stiles swallowed hard. He drew in a deep breath and cemented his composure.

20 seconds.

“Stiles, listen to me. When the timer goes down, dive in as far as you can. I’ll get you to the cornucopia,” Geyer instructed, his voice softened as if it were a promise.

Stiles nodded and braced himself against the edge of his podium.

10 seconds.

 _I won’t run this time_ , Stiles told himself. _I have to fight_. _This isn’t like last time._ _This time I have to fight for those I love_. _I owe them this much._

5.

4.

3.

_This is for Allison, for Deaton, for Scott and Isaac, for Melissa and Chris, for my dad, and for Laura._

Stiles drew in a deep breath.

He set his glare on the gleaming silver weapons nestled in the cornucopia. He narrowed his glare on the spear.

 _I won’t let them down_.

2.

1.

Begin.

The world fell silent as tributes leapt from their podiums.

There was a loud crash as the water engulfed Stiles.

A dark shape swam beneath him.

Stiles wound his arms around Geyer’s shoulders and held on as the man glided through the water.

They reached the cornucopia. Stiles grabbed the rocky ledge and climbed up before reaching back to help pull Geyer up.

Geyer reached up for his hand and Stiles helped the man climb up onto the rocky isle.

A couple of tributes were taken out instantly: tossed into the water and left to drown, knocked to the ground by thrown punches and trampled by other tributes or necks snapped by brute strength.

The sound of breaking bones rang in Stiles’ ears, churning his stomach and bile rose into his throat.

 _Focus_ , he told himself. _Get a weapon. Get supplies. Get out of here._

The cornucopia became a slaughter house: tributes were impaled and torn to shreds by other tributes, their limp, bloody bodies tossed aside as others greedily snatched bags, food, weapons, or anything they could get their hands on.

Stiles limped slightly as they wove their way through the fighting tributes and grabbed supplies.

The female tribute from District Three ran towards them, wielding a sword and screaming like a savage animal.

Geyer stopped and fought her off, his movements agile as he blocked her blows and disarmed her. He put himself between Stiles and the girl, keeping her occupied.

Her footing slipped on the wet rocks. She fell backwards and hit her head on the rocky ledge with a gut-wrenching crack.

A thick wave crashed against the island, foaming trails of water filtering through the grooves of the rough rocks. They rolled over her cold, still body, slowly dragging her lifeless corpse into the churning water.

Stiles turned away, swallowing hard against the bile that burnt at his oesophagus.

He snatched up a trident and a backpack and tossed them to Geyer.

“Find Hayden and get her to safety,” Stiles shouted over the other tributes.

The man nodded and sprinted off, moving swiftly across the wet rocks.

Another figure sprinted up to Stiles and collected the sword that had fallen from the hand of the girl from District Three.

Stiles grabbed another bag of food and medical supplies and tossed it to the nearby figure.

“Lori’s on the east side, get her and run,” Stiles instructed, passing Brett a pair of batons for Lori. “Run and hide. Keep your sister safe.”

Brett nodded, shrugging the bag onto his back and sprinting to the other side of the cornucopia to find Lori.

Stiles picked up a second backpack and slid it onto his back. He grabbed a gleaming silver spear from the nearby rack and spun around.

He swung at the large figure that loomed over him. His blow was blocked by the polished metal blade of an axe.

He froze. His eyes grew wide with fear as he realised his mistake and his mind filled with regret.

“Heading my way?” a familiar husky voice asked.

Stiles smiled up at Derek and replied, “You bet.”

Derek took Stiles’ hand. He laced their fingers together and led the boy through the crowd and towards the rocky lines that divided the podiums.

They sprinted towards the shoreline.

The delayed cannon fire began: two shots. The sound went straight through Stiles, making him jump as it knocked the air from his lungs.

He stumbled to a halt.

His eyes were drawn to the thrashing in the water. Between the foaming waves, he caught a glimpse of the boy that struggled to fight off another tribute.

“Mason!” Stiles called.

Derek froze and spun around. Without a second’s hesitation, he passed Stiles his axe and dove into the water.

“Stiles,” Marin called as she, Geyer, Paige and Hayden sprinted up to his side. “I can’t find Mason.”

Stiles looked out towards the water.

Geyer’s eyes turned to the thrashing water. He passed Hayden his trident and readied himself to jump in, but froze.

The water stilled.

“Derek,” Stiles muttered, feeling his heart sink into his gut.

The water was silent and undisturbed. The rippling surface showed no sign of movement.

A cannon fired over hear, the thundering boom shattering the air.

“Derek?!”

The water erupted as two figures leapt to the surface.

Derek paddled backwards, pulling Mason’s frail body with him as they younger boy shuddered as he coughed up a lungful of water.

Geyer and Marin helped pull the boys out of the water.

“Get to shore,” Derek panted.

Stiles led the way, followed by Hayden and Geyer who was carrying Mason’s trembling body.

Marin hoisted Derek’s arm around her shoulders and helped him stumble onto the wet sand.

A sharp whistle tore through the air, silenced when it struck a solid object with a heavy thud.

Paige let out a pained yelp.

Everyone turned around, eyes wide with fear.

Paige froze. She swallowed hard, body trembling with shock as she glanced down at the arrow jutting from her chest.

“No,” Derek gasped.

Paige’s dark brown eyes were misted with tears as her slender fingers coiled around the thin arrow shaft that jutted out of her chest.

“No, don’t,” Derek cried as she drew it out of her body.

Streams of thick blood gushed from the wound.

She whimpered and choked on her breath, collapsing to the ground.

Derek shrugged Marin off and sprinted to the girl’s side, dropping to his knees and lifting her into his arms. He carried her past the tree line where they were sheltered from the world.

Marin turned her eyes across the arena, livid with rage as she spotted the heartless woman who held the crossbow. She snarled and tightened her grip on her weapon, kicking up her heels and sprinting off after the Desert Wolf.

The two of them disappeared among the dense trees.

Stiles turned his eyes back to Derek. He watched on helplessly as Derek sat down at the foot of the tree. He leant back against the jagged mess of tangled mangrove roots, cradling the frail girl’s body against his chest.

“No, no, no,” he pleaded breathlessly, pressing his hand to the gaping wound. Streams of blood spilled over his trembling hands.

Crystal-like tears streaked her cheeks, clearing away the dirt and grime that smeared her face.

“I’m going to die, aren’t I?” she rasped.

Derek was too panicked to reply. His lips quivered around unspoken words as his eyes flittered back and forth from his blood-soaked hand that was pressed to her wound and her pale face.

“Derek,” she said softly. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. It’s not okay,” Derek stammered.

The older boy carefully brushed the loose strands of hair away from Paige’s face.

Her breathing was shallow, nothing more than frail wisps of air that passed her trembling lips. Paige shuddered in his arms, coughing and gasping for air. Blood dripped across her lips.

“Please,” Paige muttered. “I can’t take it anymore. I can’t…”

“No…” Derek gasped, soft tears felling down his cheeks.

“Derek… Please,” Paige whimpered.

Derek pressed his head against hers. He reached down and unsheathed the hunting knife that was strapped to his calf.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Paige let out a strangled gasp as the blade tore through her chest. Her body trembled slightly before collapsing weakly in Derek’s arms. She let out a soft sigh as her eyes fluttered shut slightly. Her head lolled to the side, falling weakly against Derek’s chest.

The cannon fired.


	11. Chapter 11

The echoing boom shook tears from all of them, the glistening droplets clearing away the salty spray, kicked up sand and stirred up dirt from the shore that lingered on their skin.

Stiles felt his gut lurch. He couldn’t take his eyes off Paige’s lifeless body.

Derek sniffed back his tears as he withdrew his blood-soaked hand. He reached down, drew her hunting knife and slid it into his sheath.

He rose to his feet, lifting Paige into his arms and carrying her back to the shore. He set her down in the shallows where the rippling water gently swayed against her unmoving limbs.

Derek took a step back and turned to face the others.

Stiles met his gaze, his shimmering golden irises filled with sorrow, pain, pity and understanding. He took a step forward. His heart skipped a beat as Derek knowingly reached out for his hand.

Stiles slid his hand into Derek’s, his fingers brushing against the older boy’s palm ever so lightly, just enough to let Derek know he was there.

Derek curled his hand around Stiles’, holding it tight and feeling his warmth.

They stood in silence for a minute, waiting for Derek to react somehow: cry, lash out or say something, but he was silent.

After a second, Derek turned his gaze to the others, his steely composure returning.

They all bowed their head respectfully.

Derek turned to look at Stiles.

The boy averted his gaze, hanging his head and looking at the streams of colour where the green undergrowth bled into the sand.

“Stiles,” Derek said softly, almost warningly.

The boy didn’t look up.

Derek gave Stiles’ hand a gentle squeeze, narrowing his cold glare on the boy.

“What aren’t you telling me?” Derek asked.

“Nothing,” Stiles rasped.

“There’s something you need to say, I can tell. So tell me, what is it?”

Stiles swallowed hard.

“You can tell me,” Derek whispered.

Stiles blinked back another wave of tears. His voice broke slightly, faltering as he said, “They killed Deaton.”

Derek’s composure fractured for a second, a deep set rage brewing behind his clear aventurine eyes.

He opened his mouth to say something when the rustling bushes silenced their conversation.

Stiles let go of Derek’s hand and passed him his axe.

Derek used his free hand to guide Stiles behind his built form; if anything were to happen, Stiles was to run – take the two younger tributes and run – that was their unspoken plan.

Stiles adjusted his hold on his spear and tightened his grip on it.

Geyer stepped forward, shielding Hayden and Mason with his body as he gripped his trident and readied himself to attack.

A slender figure pounced out from behind the thick foliage, panting ruggedly.

Stiles leapt forward, putting himself between the incomer and the others and instantly putting a halt to the readied attack.

Once he was sure no-one was going to start a fight, Stiles turned to face Marin.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his eyes drawn to her torn sleeve and the thin stream of blood that trickled down from the wound.

“We need to get moving,” she said bluntly. “I don’t know how long it’ll be before the Desert Wolf comes back.”

Derek nodded.

Stiles shrugged off his bag and rifled through the contents. He pulled out a small bandage and took a step closer to Marin’s side.

“It’s just a flesh wound. I’m okay,” she dismissed, gently brushing Stiles’ hands away.

“In this environment, it’ll be infected in minutes,” Stiles growled. “We need to treat it now or it’ll get worse.”

Marin sighed, muttering something under her breath, and held out her arm.

Stiles wound the bandage around her wound and tied it in place. Once done, he took a step back and picked up his bag again.

“There,” he muttered. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Marin rolled her eyes at the boy. “Can we please get going now?”

Derek took the lead, hacking at the thick vines that blocked their path with his axe. He shoved aside the branches of larger trees and led the team through the suffocating chaparral.

The others trailed behind him, Geyer still keeping an eye on Mason and Derek. He would flinch whenever one of them coughed or stumbled slightly.

They trudged uphill through the dense foliage. They braced themselves against the rigid trunks of palm trees and hoisted themselves up the muddy slopes

They tried to move quietly and with caution, jolting at the gut-wrenching sounds of pained cries that filled the arena.

Their muscles ached in protest as sweat dripped from their pores.

Stiles paused, turning to look about the shadows of the greenery.

Something was off.

“Are you okay?” Marin asked quietly, her dark eyes looking at the boy with care and worry.

Stiles kept his eyes fixed on the faint glimmer of sapphire blue water downhill. “You know, when you’re drowning you don’t actually inhale until right before you black out,” he said, rambling slightly. “It’s called voluntary apnoea. It’s like no matter how much you’re freaking out, the instinct to not let the water in is so strong that you won’t open your mouth until you feel like your head is exploding.”

Among the chittering birds and the rustling leaves he could hear the distance cries of a child – _his cries_ from all those years ago. He remembered how it felt when his redundant tears fell from his eyes and mixed with the murky bathwater.  He remembered what it felt like as he thrashed back against the tight grip that held him underwater. He remembered the sound of the water and his mother’s frustrated cries as the brown waves crashed over the edge of the bathtub and pooled across the dusty floorboards. He remembered how his lungs felt like a raging inferno until finally it got to him and he opened his mouth to breathe.

His voice weakened slightly as he continued, “Then, when you finally do let it in, that’s when it stops hurting. It’s not scary anymore… It’s actually kind of peaceful.”

Marin took a step closer.

“Stiles,” she said softly, craning her neck slightly to look him in the eye. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Stiles replied abruptly, snapping out of his trance and looking away dismissively. He turned around and took a few steps forward, catching up with the rest of their group. “Aside from not sleeping, the jumpiness, the constant, overwhelming, crushing fear that something terrible is about to happen.”

“It’s called hypervigilance,” Marin whispered. “It’s the persistent feeling of being under threat.”

“But it’s not just a feeling,” Stiles countered, keeping his voice quiet and even. “It’s… it’s like a panic attack. You know, like I can’t even breathe.”

“Like you’re drowning?” Marin offered.

“Yeah,” Stiles agreed.

“So if you're drowning and you're trying to keep your mouth closed until that very last moment, what if you choose to not open your mouth? To not let the water in?” she asked.

“You do anyway,” Stiles told her. “It's a reflex.”

Marin pushed a curtain of vines aside and let Stiles step past. “But if you hold off until that reflex kicks in, you have more time, right?”

Stiles thought about it for a second. “Not much time.”

“But more time to fight your way to the surface?” Marin proposed, lifting her brow slightly.

Stiles shrugged. “I guess.”

“More time to be rescued,” Marin added.

“More time to be in agonizing pain,” Stiles corrected. “I mean, did you forget about the part where you feel like your head's exploding?”

“If it's about survival, isn't a little agony worth it?” Marin asked.

“But what if it just gets worse?” Stiles countered. “What if it's agony now and then and it's just hell later on?”

“Then think about something Winston Churchill once said, ‘if you're going through hell, keep going’,” she proposed.

“And what if help isn’t coming?” Stiles asked.

He paused, remembering the sensation of weightlessness as his father pulled his limp body from the bathtub. He remembered how Melissa panicked as she pushed her hands against his chest over and over again. He remembered the burning pain of coughing up lungfuls of water and the sweet relief of the rush of air as it returned to his lungs. He remembered the terror and rage in his mother’s eyes as his dad fought against her flailing limbs and carried her off to their bedroom. He remembered how his father and Melissa spoke quietly that night about how he would have died if they had been one minute later.

“What if help is too late?” Stiles rasped.

Marin looked at him, her dark eyes unsteady as she promised, “Help will always come. And if they’re too late, then you died fighting.”

Stiles glanced uphill, watching Derek’s swift movements as he brushed aside the thinner vines and hacked and the unpassable veils. He watched as the gleaming blade of Derek’s axe tore through the thick vines effortlessly.

Stiles’ feet faltered as he pulled up to a halt.

A chill ran up his spine.

Something wasn’t right.

He squinted as he took a closer look at the dense foliage, noticing the slight hazy shimmer among the thick branches and vines.

He felt his heart thump against his chest.

Derek raised his axe to swing.

Stiles screamed, “Derek, no!”

There was a thundering bang and an eruption of sparks.

The shockwave sent the group toppling backwards.

Stiles’ ears rang as he sat up.

“Derek,” he rasped, crawling forward across the leaf-littered ground. “Derek.”

He rolled the older boy onto his back and shook him gently.

Derek smelt of singed hair, smoke and charred flesh.

“Derek,” Stiles whimpered, almost begging him to wake up, but his eyes remained shut. He didn’t respond.

Stiles rested his trembling hand on Derek’s chest.

“He’s not breathing,” the boy cried. “He’s not breathing!”

But there was something worse.

Stiles breath fell short, he rested his head against Derek’s chest the way he did at night and listened.

Nothing.

His heart wasn’t beating.

“Derek!” Stiles screamed, shaking the older boy’s limp body. He began to panic, resorting to slapping Derek’s hollow cheeks as he cried his name over and over.

Geyer was on his feet in a second. He raced to Derek’s side and dropped to his knees. He pinched Derek’s nose shut.

“No!” Stiles howled, hurling himself at Geyer.

The man reacted quickly, grabbing Stiles by the front of his suit and threw him down the small incline.

Geyer turned his sharp gaze on Marin and pointed at Stiles as he ordered, “Hold him down.”

Marin did as instructed. She pinned the boy’s arms to his side and held him back.

Stiles screamed and thrashed about as Geyer pinched Derek’s nose again and leant forward.

 _I fell for it_ , he thought to himself. _I let them fool me into thinking they were my friends. And now they’re going to kill Derek… not Derek… not him._

He felt the tears roll down his cheeks as Derek’s name fell past his lips in a weak sob.

Geyer brought his mouth to Derek’s.

Stiles froze.

After a second, he realised what Geyer was doing. He watched as Geyer blew air into Derek’s lungs, making the older boy’s chest rise and fall.

Geyer sat back and pressed the heels of his palms to Derek’s chest. He pushed down and began to pump his hands in a steady rhythm.

“Come on, Derek,” Geyer panted. “Come on.”

“Derek,” Stiles sobbed quietly, stilling enough that Marin relinquished her hold on the boy. He crawled forward and took Derek’s hand in his, watching closely for any sign of life. “Derek, please, wake up.”

Geyer leant forward again, bringing his mouth to Derek’s before returning to the steady rhythm of pushing against Derek’s ribs.

Stiles felt his heart rise into his throat. He knew the Gamemakers were readying the cannon to fire.

In that moment, he realised that the only person who would be damaged beyond repair if Derek died was him; his family loved Derek, but they knew they could never match how Stiles felt for him. And if he were to die, Stiles would never recover.

The others watched on in silence, heartbroken as Stiles cried over Derek’s unmoving body.

“Come on, Derek,” Geyer begged. “Come on, Derek, you’ve got to wake up. Come on!”

Stiles felt his heart break.

Derek was gone.

His heavy tears fell from his cheeks, shattering like glass across Derek’s olive skin or the detritus beneath them.

There was a slight cough and a quiet rasp.

“Derek?” Stiles said hopefully.

Geyer sat back, looking down at the older boy.

Derek’s body shook slightly as he drew in a breath. His eyes fluttered slightly but they didn’t open. His lips quivered as he muttered something.

“What?” Stiles asked, leaning in closer.

“Look out... for… the barrier… up ahead,” Derek mumbled.

Stiles let out a sigh of relief, allowing himself to chuckle slightly. He laid down and rested his head again Derek’s chest, listening to the steady drumming of his heartbeat. He sat back on his heels again, sobbing as he brushed back the limp black locks of Derek’s hair.

Derek gently shushed him, reaching up with a trembling hand and gently brushing the backs of his fingers against the boy’s soft, tear-stained cheek before blinking his eyes open again.

Stiles stared in the uncertain depths of colour, watching his irises shift in the light: from hazel to green, to a shade of light blue – clear, bright and focused.

“You were dead,” Stiles sobbed. “Your heart stopped.”

“It’s okay,” Derek whispered reassuringly. “It’s working now. I’m alright.”

Derek’s hands trembled slightly as he reached up and brushed away the tears that caressed Stiles’ cheeks.

Stiles ran his hand over Derek’s, his trembling fingers feeling the soft patches of skin, the ridges of his knuckles and the smooth surface of the cold silver ring.

“Do you want to stand up?” Stiles asked, his voice breaking slightly as he spoke.

Derek nodded. He let out a pained grunt as Stiles helped him sit upright.

The younger boy wrapped his arms around Derek, grabbing at fistfuls of his clothes and desperately clinging to him. He buried his face into the curve of the older boy’s neck and cried.

Derek gently shushed him, patting down the boy’s tousled locks and whispering sweet nothings into his ear.

Geyer let out a sigh of relief and slumped back against a nearby tree with a heavy thud.

“Anyone got any water?” he asked.

Marin stepped forward and looked through Stiles’ backpack, letting the boy stay where he was with his arms wrapped around Derek. After a second she took a step back and shook her head.

“Okay, we’ll rest for a little while and then get moving,” Geyer announced. “Maybe there’s a spring or something over the ridge.”

“I can say for certain that there is nothing that way,” Derek muttered, pointing to the barrier which had regenerated and returned to the realistic image of vines and the illusion of distance.

Geyer rolled his eyes and smirked. “At least your sense of humour is intact.”


	12. Chapter 12

By the time they were moving again, the light of day had begun to dwindle. Dusk was settling over the arena and the artificial sky was streaked with magnificently vibrant shades of magenta and orange.

The shadows among the trees had begun to darken.

The group moved quietly through the maze of vines and tree trunks.

Marin took the lead, holding onto a handful of rocks and tossing them to her side to test where the barrier was before swinging her tomahawk and slicing through the vines that barred their path.

Although Derek was back on his feet and walking again, Geyer was wary of his condition. He walked beside the older boy, occasionally setting a hand between Derek’s shoulder blades to steady him or help him up inclines.

Stiles followed behind them, his eyes focused on Derek’s boots as he trudged through the undergrowth.

A sound stirred in the shadows.

Stiles turned, his eyes searching the darkness for the source.

The group stopped, turning to look at the boy.

Derek glanced from Stiles to where the boy was looking.

“Stiles?” Derek asked cautiously. “What’s wrong?”

“Do you hear that?” Stiles whispered.

“Hear what?” Marin asked.

It grew louder.

Stiles took a step forward.

“Stiles,” Derek said warningly.

“You can’t hear that?” Stiles muttered, his eyes focused on a flittering silhouette among the shadows.

“I don’t hear anything,” Hayden replied. “What do you hear?”

Stiles listened closely, making out the pained wail of a young boy. His heart sunk into his gut and his stomach rose into this throat.

He swallowed hard and weakly answered, “Screaming.”

Stiles took another step forward.

“Stiles,” Derek called again, his voice hinting at a warning.

Stiles listened carefully.

There it was again: the familiar broken wail of a terrified child.

The air was knocked from his lungs.

“Isaac,” Stiles whispered.

“Stiles,” Derek said firmly. “It’s just like last year. They’re trying to mess with you.”

“What if it’s real this time?” Stiles asked.

Derek opened his mouth to reply when another scream echoed through the forest.

“Scott,” Stiles gasped.

He picked up his heels and raced off through the dense greenery.

“Scott! Isaac!” he shouted, sprinting deeper into the forest. He wove through the trees, calling for the boys.

“Stiles,” Derek called after him.

 _Don’t hurt them,_ Stiles begged silently. _It’s me you want, not them. Leave them alone._

Panicked tears welled in his eyes as the haunting possibilities filled his head.

He stopped in the centre of a small clearing, listening as the screams swirled around him and faded into the shadows.

Stiles caught sight of the flittering black bird among the foliage. His eyes darted about the undergrowth. He grabbed a rock and hurled it at the bird.

It hit the jabberjay and knocked it from the sky. The bird fell to the ground, the agonising screams dying away as its body twitched and the life drained from it.

The bushes in front of him rustled.

Stiles spun around and tightened his grip on his weapon, ready to fight.

A young girl sprinted through the thick curtain of vines, pulling up to a stop before him.

“Tracy?” Stiles gasped.

The girl nodded.

Another scream broke through the quiet greenery.

Stiles wheeled around, sharp eyes piercing the bushes.

“Tracy,” he yelled over the rising volume of screams. “We have to go. Run!”

He grabbed Tracy’s hand and ran back the way he had come, towards Derek’s voice.

Derek burst into the clearing, striking a barrier with a thundering boom. It didn’t electrify him this time, but it did knock him back slightly. He quickly regained his balance and thumped his fists against the barrier.

Stiles pulled up to a halt before the force field, eyes wide with panic as he looked at Derek.

The screams returned.

They multiplied, intensified, filling their ears with the sounds of screaming loved ones: Isaac, Scott, Allison, Chris, Deaton, Melissa, his father, his mother, and the screams of those who Derek loved and hundreds of others they didn’t know.

“It’s not real,” Derek shouted, his voice muffled slightly by the barrier as he pressed his forehead against the barrier.

Stiles mirrored the older boy, pressing his hands against the barrier as tears of fear streaked his cheeks.

“It’s not real!” Derek howled.

Stiles dropped his spear and cupped his hands over his ears.

Tracy did the same.

They dropped to their knees, pained screams falling from their own lips.

The piercing screeches, deafening cries and broken wails crippled them.

Among the screams, Stiles could hear Tracy’s pained cries.

Stiles spun around, peering through the suffocating mess of fluttering birds and inky black feathers to see the girl’s shuddering body. He stumbled as he rose to his feet and dragged his body over to her side. He grabbed her shoulders and pulled her close, cradling her trembling body against his chest. He arched over her and used his body to shield her.

Stiles opened his eyes, squinting past the flittering black shapes. His face was contorted with agony as glistening tears fell from his eyes, but he ignored his own pain and focused on keeping Tracy safe.

A wave of jabberjays slammed into him, hurling him away from Tracy and knocking him to the ground. The tides of birds swarmed around them, feathers raining over them. The birds swooped down at them. Sharp beaks and jagged talons tore open exposed flesh and shredded their clothes.

The light strobed as shadows passed over their faces. The noise drowned out everything else, a dull roar that numbed him. The screams no longer affected him, nor did the warm streams of blood that covered his body.

One of the birds flew in low, smacking into the side of Stiles’ face.

His vision went black for a second.

He blinked his eyes open. He was staring at the withered wooden planks of the hallway in his old house back in District Twelve.

His bare feet fell against the smooth, aged floorboard as he crept down the narrow hallway. He followed the slur of hushed conversations down the tunnelling corridor. The walls stretched further and further away as he tried to follow the soft voices. He stepped forward and found himself standing in the open doorway of the kitchen.

There was a young woman pacing back and forth around the table, her pale blue dress rippling slightly with her movements. The hems of the pale fabric had been darkened by coal and dust and the thick cotton stitching had frayed. Her light brown hair billowed like a curtain of curls that cascaded across her shoulder blades. She wrung her hands, her lips quivering with unspoken words as she dragged her bare feet across the withered floorboards.

“Claudia,” his father called, speaking softly as he cautiously approached his wife.

“I can’t… I couldn’t stand to be in that room anymore,” she babbled. “Not with him looking at me like that.”

Stiles cowered in the shadows of the doorway, watching as his father took a step forward and tried to talk his wife down.

“He’s trying to hurt me,” Claudia argued. “I don’t care if you don’t believe me, but he is. He’s trying to kill me.”

“No, that’s not true,” John said calmly, holding his hand out and pulling his wife into the comfort and security of his embrace. “You have to remind yourself it’s the disease. Remember what the dementia does? It gives you delusions. It makes you think people are out to get you when they’re not.”

“You don’t see the way he looks at me,” Claudia argued.

Stiles bowed his head, glistening tears rolling down his cheeks.

“Claudia, he’s ten years old.”

“He’s trying to kill me!”

Stiles rubbed at his damp cheeks with the sleeve of his shirt, sniffing back his sobs.

Claudia turned on him, eyes burning with rage as she screamed, “Stop looking at me like that! Stop it! Stop looking at me!”

She broke free of John’s arms and charged at the boy.

“Mum!” he cried, shielding his face as she weakly pummelled him. “Mum, stop!”

Something slammed into his side, knocking him to the ground.

He blinked heavily, gasping and panting as his heart lurched into his throat and anxiety coursed through his veins.

A thundering boom shattered the air and the ground shook.

“Dad?” Stiles called weakly.

“It was a mine,” his father told him. “Stay here and take care of your mother; I’m going to help.”

“Be careful,” Stiles whimpered as he watched his father leave, his heavy form vanishing as he sprinted down the street and towards the collapsed mine.

“Stiles,” his mother called from her bedroom.

Stiles turned and ran to her side, panting and panicking as he climbed into her bed and sat beside her.

Claudia gently shushed the boy, patting down his tousled brown hair and soothing him.

The moment of quiet was broken as she began to cough and splutter, blood dripping from her lips as she struggled to breathe.

“Mum?” Stiles whimpered.

“It’s okay,” she whispered. “It’s alright, baby.”

“Mum, you have to hold on,” Stiles pleaded.

She weakly blinked her eyes open. Her face was ghostly pale, the rosy colour of her cheeks was gone and her lips were chapped and coated in blood. Her dark eyes looked at her son with a glimmer of pain, love and recognition that had been missing for a long time.

“Hey, Mischief, listen to me.” Stiles brightened at the nickname, looking at his mother lovingly as she rasped, “You have to take care of your dad…”

Glistening tears welled in her eyes, the warm droplets streaming down her hollow cheeks. Her hand trembled as she reached out for Stiles’ hand.

Stiles took a hold of her hand, tears rolling down his cheeks as his lips trembled. For the first time in his life, he was speechless.

“It’s going to be okay,” she rasped. “Remember… Remember I love you.”

“I love you too, mum,” he whimpered.

“Stiles,” she said weakly. “Sing for me, please.”

His mouth was dry and his throat hurt. His vision was streaked by tears that he desperately tried to blink away. He sniffed back his sobs and hummed the soft melody. His voice was hoarse as he began to sing quietly, just for her.

 

_Deep in the meadow, under the willow_

_A bed of grass, a soft green pillow_

_Lay down your head, and close your sleepy eyes_

_And when they again open, the sun will rise._

The words seemed to flow from his lips, quiet but natural.

She sighed and smiled up at him, relaxing as she laid back against the pillows and let the melody soothe her enough that her calm mind drifted.

He gave his mother’s hand a gentle squeeze, stroking the ball of his thumb over the ridges of her knuckles.

 

_Here it’s safe, here it’s warm_

_Here the daisies guard you from every harm_

_Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true_

_Here is the place where I love you._

She weakened in his hold, her body growing cold. He tried to ignore it, tried to hold onto those precious last moments. 

_Deep in the meadow, hidden far away_

_A cloak of leaves, a moonbeam ray_

_Forget your woes and let your troubles lay_

_And when again its morning, they wash away._

 

Her breathing slowed and her eyelids fluttered shut. She seemed to relax, sinking into the pillows.

 

_Here it’s safe, here it’s warm_

_Here the daisies guard you from every harm_

_Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true_

_Here is the place where I love you._

 

Claudia’s body began to shake violently. She choked on her own breath and whimpered. Her body fell still, her head lulled to the side, her hand grew cold in Stiles’ hold, and the life drained from her eyes as the clouds swarmed in the dark depths.

“Mum?” Stiles whispered, gently shaking her frail shoulder. “Mum, wake up. Mum, please… Please, wake up… Mum.”

Tears streaked his vision, heavy tears burning at his eyes and coursing down his cheeks. He laid down next to her and cried like the child he was.

After what felt like an eternity, he crawled out of the bed and made his way outside. He sat down on the step by the front door and dropped his face into his hands.

The world was quiet. He could hear people rushing by and heartbroken cries of those who had lost their loved ones. He could hear his father’s heavy boots trudge up the muddy street and towards the boy. He could hear his father’s husky voice as he called the boy’s name, but Stiles couldn’t reply. He heard his father’s panicked cries as the man tore through the house, screaming his wife’s name only to be silenced as he found her lifeless body.

Another gut-wrenching scream filled his ears as a solid thud threw him on his side.

Tears stung at his eyes, heavy sobs shaking his body as his ears rang with the shrill noise. The sound was replaced by his father’s hoarse voice, thundering in his ears.

Stiles gasped for air, panting ruggedly as he braced himself on his hands and sat up on the dust-covered floorboards. He turned and looked at his father.

“It’s you,” the man growled. “It’s all you.”

Stiles lifted his gaze, his father’s face coming into focus as he blinked away the streaking glare of tears.

His father stumbled about, waving the half-empty bottle of whiskey in front of him. John’s faded eyes were bloodshot and cheeks were flushed red as he spat his slurred words, saliva dribbling from his lips.

“You know, every day I saw her lying in that bed slowly dying I thought ‘how the hell am I supposed to raise this stupid kid on my own? This hyperactive little _bastard_ that keeps _ruining_ my life’.”

The tears grew hotter, heavier.

Stiles could hear the whiskey slosh in the bottle, crashing waves of golden liquor. He could smell it on his father: on his breath, on the rags of his clothes, and oozing out of the pores of his skin.

“It’s you, _Stiles_ ,” John spat venomously. “You killed your mother, you hear me? You killed her. And now you’re killing me.”

He hurled the liquor bottle at the boy. It shattered against the doorframe. Stiles flinched, the shards of glass tearing at his skin like jagged claws.

He hit the ground with solid thud, screams circling around him as his body was hurled one way and then the other. Among the darkness, he could hear fragments of conversation: “Scott and Melissa are going to come and live with us. You’ll be sharing a room with Scott. We’ll be okay.”

There was another solid thud.

Stiles bolted upright in bed.

“Scott,” he whispered across the darkness of their bedroom. “Did you hear that?”

“Yeah,” his friend replied.

They both swung their feet over the edge of the bed and crept out into the hallway. They clung to the shadows and peered out into the larger room of the house.

Among the shadows and thin veil of morning light, a small figure moved about the kitchen and rummaged through the rickety cupboards for scraps of food.

They stepped into the kitchen, catching the thief by surprise.

The spry little boy turned and ran towards the door, but he wasn’t as fast as Scott. The taller boy beat him to the doorway, blocking his path.

“I’m sorry,” the young boy squealed as he wheeled backwards and cowered up against the cupboards. “I’m sorry.”

Stiles crept forward, looking down at the small boy. He looked sickly, his flesh olive green and covered in mud. His skin hung from his frail bones and his stomach growled. His cheeks were hollow and his bright sapphire eyes were darkened by heavy, dark circles.

“It’s okay,” Stiles whispered. “Are you hungry?”

The boy nodded frantically.

“Okay, why don’t you sit down at the table and we’ll get you something proper to eat?” Stiles encouraged, helping the boy to his feet and sitting him down at the table.

Once the boy was seated, Stiles began to rifle through the cupboards, picking up a cup and filling it with water. He passed it to the young boy and watched him guzzle it down greedily. He then reached for the loaf of bread Melissa had made the day before and cut the boy a slice. They cut up some fruit – strawberries and apples mainly – and set them down on a plate. He brought the plate over to the table and offered it to the young boy.

He seemed reluctant to eat at first, as if he were scared of judgment or that Stiles and Scott would get angry because he ate their food.

“Go on,” Scott encouraged. “I’ll get you some more water.”

Permission given, the boy tore into the food, gulping down mouthfuls of the bread’s fluffy white flesh, biting into the crunchy bitter apple slices and cringing slightly as he gnawed at the bittersweet strawberries.

Once finished, the boy carefully pushed the plate away from himself and muttered, “Thank you.”

Scott and Stiles looked the boy up and down. His thick curls were coloured by the mud and coal that filled the streets of District Twelve. His shirt was torn into thin rags and the skin beneath the layers of grime was covered in scars and cuts – clear indications of domestic abuse.

They knew who he was – he was Lahey’s younger son, the one who sat quietly in the alley ways and didn’t talk to anyone – but they didn’t know his name. There had been rumours about the horrors that the man inflicted upon his son: locking him in claustrophobic containers, smashing plates and mugs against the boy’s body or hurl him about the house and use him as a means of cathartic release.

The boys felt helpless; there was no policing force in District Twelve that would interrupt with domestic affairs and Lahey was careful never to hurt his son to the point where he needed to take the child to Melissa, thus leaving all accusations and rumours of abuse as nothing more than speculation.

“Why don’t we run you a bath?” Scott offered. “We’ll get you cleaned up and warm and you can borrow some of our clothes.”

The newcomer didn’t say anything. He sat perfectly still and silent, almost as if he were trying to fade out of existence.

Scott rose to his feet and filled the large cauldron with water. He stoked the fire, stirring the embers back to life and encouraging the crackling flames to devour the logs of wood. He set the cauldron over the water and watched as it slowly warmed.

“What’s your name?” Stiles asked the boy, keeping his voice low and welcoming.

He didn’t reply.

“I’m Stiles and he’s Scott,” Stiles introduced themselves, holding out his hand.

The smaller boy returned the gesture and muttered, “I’m Isaac.”

Something hit Stiles’ chest, making him scream out in pain. He blacked out for a second, blinking his eyes open to bright daylight.

He stood among the crowd of children, staring up at the stage as Lydia – dressed in a frilly white cocktail dress, with a trail of pastel coloured butterflies trailing up over her shoulder and into the curls of her strawberry blonde hair – stepped up to the microphone with a small slip of paper in her hands. She unfolded the slip and held it before herself. Her soft green eyes rolled over the typed name as she swallowed hard and read it out, her bright pink lips moving around the name.

“Scott McCall.”

Stiles couldn’t breathe. It felt as if something had slammed into him, like that time a few years ago when he fell out of a tree. He had hit his back hard enough that it knocked the air from his lungs and brought hot tears to his eyes. That’s what it felt like: the burning feeling of breathlessness that radiated from his chest. The warm air around him thinned, unbreathable. Hot tears burnt at his eyes, blurring his vision and streaking lights across the worlds around him.

He turned and looked at Scott.

His lips quivered and he gasped, “No.”

Scott turned and walked down the aisle towards the peacekeepers.

Stiles turned his attention to Isaac who flailed about in the crowd, racing towards the aisle and falling into the arms of peacekeepers as he screamed and desperately reached out for Scott.

Tears streaked Scott’s golden cheeks as he tried to walk past the crying boy.

Lights sparked in his vision as air returned to Stiles’ lungs, hitting him hard enough that his ribs ached. The world around him began to spin and his stomach churned. His breathing was shallow and his hands were trembling.

“I volunteer!” he screamed at the top of his lungs.

The air burnt and he swallowed hard, his limp body thrown about until he heard the pained whimper and a heavy weight fall in his arms. He opened his eyes, looking down at the blood-soaked body in his arms.

“Stiles,” Allison rasped. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. It’s not okay,” Stiles stammered.

“It’s okay,” Allison repeated, assuring him. “It doesn’t hurt.”

Heavy tears broke past the bars of Stiles’ eyelashes, splashing against the pale skin of her cheeks.

“Stiles, listen to me. You have to win. You have to survive this. Promise me you’ll make it through this.”

“I’ll try. I promise I’ll try,” Stiles whispered breathlessly.

Her breathing was shallow, frail wisps of air that passed her trembling lips. Allison shuddered in his arms, coughing and gasping for air. Blood dripped across her lips.

“Sing to me,” she pleaded. “Please.”

He couldn’t. His lips quivered around words that didn’t make it past his lips.

The air filled with screams, the cries ringing in his ears as he was knocked about.

Among the wailing shrieks, he could hear a familiar pained scream and desperate plea of a dying woman as she whispered, “Please, promise me that you’ll take care of her. I’m not asking you to raise her – you don’t have to burden yourself with that responsibility – just please make sure she’s taken care of.”

“I will,” Stiles promised, holding her hand as she weakened and passed away.

Something struck his shoulder and rolled him over. He turned around and fell still, settling down among the plush pillows and thick blankets. He smiled as he met Derek’s gaze, the older boy’s eyes glittering as his face was bathed in the golden glow of the morning light.

“So what are we going to call her?” the older boy asked. “Allison?”

Stiles thought about it but shook his head. “She was my best friend and a strong woman, but after what happened I don’t think I’d be able to call her that.”

“I understand,” Derek said softly, reaching across to gently brush the tousled locks from Stiles’ forehead.

“It’s a nice name,” Stiles added. “Maybe it could be her middle name?”

“That could work,” Derek agreed. “Have you got any other ideas?”

“What was your sister’s name?” Stiles asked. “The nice one.”

Derek chuckled. “Laura.”

“We’ll call her Laura,” Stiles offered. “Laura Allison Hale.”

“Not ‘Hale’,” Derek objected.

“Why not?”

“Peter,” Derek said as if it answered everything. “And there’s nothing wrong with ‘Stilinski’.”

Stiles sighed. “Fine. Laura Allison Stilinski.”

Derek smiled and whispered, “Perfect.”

A heart-breaking wail rang in his ears.

Stiles spun around and made his way through the Argent’s old house. He wove his way into Allison’s old bedroom and stepped up to the small cot in the corner of the room. Inside the cot was a lively baby who – despite Coach’s best efforts – would not stop crying.

“How’s my little girl?” Stiles cooed.

The baby let out a heart-breaking wail. She reached up for him, her chubby little fingers grabbing in his general direction as her face reddened and tears fell from her eyes.

“That bad, huh?” Stiles asked as he picked her up out of her cot. He bundled her up in his arms and cradled her close to his chest.

Her cries died away instantly. Her chubby hands grabbed at fistfuls of Stiles’ shirt as she snuggled her face into the soft cotton. She let out a little giggle and began to babble nonsense as she smiled toothlessly up at Stiles.

Stiles couldn’t help but smile back.

 _My little girl_ , Stiles thought. _I’ll keep you safe, I promise._

There was a flutter as a bird landed on the window sill.

Stiles turned to look at it, meeting its gaze as it stared at him with glossy black eyes. It blinked at him, tilting its head from side to side as it seemed to recognise him. It dipped its head, puffed up its feathers and opened its beak, letting out a horrid screech.

Stiles cringed, dropping to his knees and using his body to shield Laura.

The baby began to cry.

Stiles cupped his hands over her ears, looking up as the doors began to rattle. The boards that covered the walls began to groan and creak. The wood bowed and splintered.

Stiles swallowed hard, wincing as he curled himself over Laura defensively.

The walls shattered.

Tidal waves of birds flooded the room, spiralling around Stiles and tearing at his flesh with razor-sharp beaks and jagged claws.

Stiles felt a sense of weightlessness, his body toppling back into the onyx black pool of nothingness.

He fell into the abyss, consumed by the darkness and swarmed by the tortured screams of everyone he had failed.


	13. Chapter 13

The breeze moved, unhindered, across the forest floor. The wisps of wind curled into a ball as it collected particles of dust, tiny rocks, fluttering feathers, and the dry carcasses of fallen leaves. It rolled over patches of dirt, under fallen branches and dishevelled branches, and through the tunnels and bridges that formed beneath thick logs and rough rocks. It moved carelessly, like a child playing in the meadow, before crashing to a halt like a wave against the rocky shoreline. The leaves and feathers that had been caught in the rolling tunnel of air fluttered slightly as they collided with the pale hand that lay, limp and unmoving, on the ground.

The roaring screams died away as the birds dropped to the ground and everything fell still. The lifeless corpses were spread around them in a blanket of raven-black feathers and twitching limbs.

The barrier faded.

Derek kicked up clumps of dirt as he sprinted to Stiles’ side. He dropped to his knees and lifted the boy’s unmoving body into his lap. He stroked the damp strands of chestnut brown locks away from Stiles’ face. Derek’s breathing was hollow as fear coursed his veins. Tears of panic welled in his eyes at the sight of the thick gashes that were torn out of Stiles’ mole-speckled cheeks and his features were creased with pain.

“Stiles,” he whimpered, gently shaking the boy. “Stiles?”

Tears streaked Derek’s cheeks as the boy laid still in his arms.

“Stiles, please, wake up,” Derek begged.

The boy’s head lulled to the side, a stream of blood dripping from his lips.

“Stiles!” Derek sobbed. “Please, Stiles. Wake up.”

The boy blinked, weakly opening his eyes.

Derek sighed, tears of relief flooding his eyes as he held the boy close. He cradled Stiles against his chest as his tears crashed against the boy’s cheeks and cleared away the blood and grime.

Stiles’ head lulled about weakly, his dark brown eyes dreary and unfocused as he blinked heavily.

“T… Tracy?” Stiles whispered.

Derek looked across to Geyer. The man met the older boy’s gaze with a solemn expression and shook his head.

Stiles looked past Derek’s shoulder, his eyes focusing on the limp body that laid among the blanket of oxy feathers. Inky black blood spilled from her lips as her clouded, lifeless eyes stared up at the sky beyond the foliage.

Stiles’ ears rang, but there was no mistaking the echoing boom that rumbled in his hollow chest. Weak tears fell from his eyes as he shuddered in Derek’s arms.

Derek held him close, whispering sweet nothings to him. He knew the boy couldn’t hear him but he hoped the vibrations in his chest was enough to soothe the boy.

“No,” Stiles sobbed. “No.”

“You’re a sick bastard, Deucalion!” Marin screamed to the sky above. “How would you feel if we set fire to your backyard or kidnapped your kids and stuck them in here? How would you like it if we did this to you and your family, huh? You know you can’t put everybody in here!”

Everyone looked at her, stunned.

She drew in a steady breath and calmed herself.

“What?” she asked with a shrug. “They can’t hurt me; there’s no-one left that I love.”

Stiles curled into Derek’s warmth, his head ponding with agony.

Derek held him close, feeling the boy’s body shudder weakly.

“Geyer, he needs help,” Derek called.

Geyer rushed to his side, kneeling beside them and checking the boy.

“He needs water and medicine,” Geyer announced. “He’s not in any condition to walk.”

“Then I’ll carry him,” Derek offered.

“Derek,” Marin said softly.

“We can’t stay here and I’m not leaving him behind,” Derek growled. “So we don’t have any other choice. I’ll carry him.”

Stiles fazed out of consciousness for a second, his eyes fluttering shut and his head falling back. The sudden jolt shook him awake again. His ears were filled with a shrill ringing as he curled up against Derek.

Derek adjusted his hold on Stiles, holding him close to make sure he didn’t hurt himself.

Among the painful noise, he heard Derek talk quietly to Marin. She reluctantly sighed and nodded before walking away.

“Where’s she going?” Stiles rasped.

Derek said something but Stiles couldn’t hear him. He blinked heavily, his head lulling about as his unfocused eyes rolled about his surroundings.

From beyond the unending pitched screaming in his ears, Stiles could hear the light twinkle of a care package. Stiles turned his weary eyes towards the overhanging foliage. A small light blinked through the strobing dusk that broke through the large palm fronds and vines.

The parcel drifted down towards them on its parachute.

Derek caught it on its decent and read the large white numbers above the latch: 12. He flicked open the latch and the lid cracked open to reveal a small bottle of golden liquid, a spile and a note.

He picked up the small note, careful not to jostle Stiles as he moved. He read the fine printed lettering across the small strip of paper:

 

YOU PROMISED YOU’D SURVIVE. YOU’D BETTER KEEP THAT PROMISE.

HOLD ON.

\- PETER

 

He grabbed the small bottle and pulled the cork from the neck. He carefully sat Stiles upright in his lap.

“Oh God,” Stiles groaned. “Not again.”

“Drink,” Derek said softly as he brought the bottle to the boy’s lips.

Stiles lifted his shaking hand to the bottle and tipped it back, gulping down the foul tasting liquid. He coughed and spluttered, his frail limbs shuddering as he forced himself to swallow.

Derek steadied him and passed Hayden the spile.

“Find a rock and hammer it into a tree,” Derek instructed.

“What does it do?” Hayden asked, taking the silver spile from the older boy.

“It’ll get us water,” Derek explained. He adjusted his hold on Stiles and reached into his backpack, pulling out the empty bottle. “Fill it and pass it around. We’ll fill it again before we leave.”

Hayden did as instructed. She found a rock among the dead birds and began to hammer the spile into a nearby tree trunk.

Everyone watched on in silence, their hearts beating painfully as a blanked of tension settled over them.

Hayden’s shoulders dropped slightly as she lost hope.

She turned around and looked at the others with sorrow-filled eyes. “What did I do wrong?”

“Nothing,” Derek assured her. “It should work.”

“Then why isn’t it working?” she asked, feeling helpless.

Derek opened his mouth to reply but was silenced by the quiet trickling.

Hayden spun around, gasping with joy as crystal clear droplets of water fell from the spile.

She held the empty bottle beneath the end, watching it fill before passing it to Geyer and holding her mouth beneath the end. They all gulped down mouthfuls of the sweet water before refilling the bottle and passing it around again.

Slowly, Stiles began to regain his senses, but he was still in no condition to move.

“We should get going,” Geyer said softly, watching as Hayden filled as many bottles and containers as she could with the fresh water before retrieving the spile and handing it back to Derek.

Stiles took it from the older boy and pocketed it.

“Okay,” Derek agreed. “Let’s get going.”

Derek shifted his grip on Stiles and hoisted the boy onto his back. He tightened Stiles’ legs around his waist and held the boy up by his thighs.

Mason took a hold of Stiles’ spear and Derek’s axe, holding onto them so that Derek could focus on carrying Stiles.

Stiles nuzzled his face into Derek’s shoulder and drifted off to sleep as the group began to advance forward.

When he woke again, his surroundings were different, unfamiliar.

The light had faded and darkness filled the arena.

The group had settled down, sitting down on nearby rocks or cushions of fallen leaves.

Derek very carefully lowered Stiles to the ground. He helped the boy sit upright and made sure he drank more of his medicine and some water before laying him down on the ground.

The quiet was interrupted as the sky lit up with the bright Capitol emblem and the anthem blared across the arena.

The group shuffled forward and peered through the foliage to look up at the sky.

The presentation of the fallen tributes began.

Beginning with District Two’s tribute, Paige.

Her portrait lit up the sky, a beautiful image that captured her in all her glory and youth. Her brown locks sat in curls that framed her face and her eyes glittered with a mix of emotion as she stared into oblivion.

Stiles reached forward, taking Derek’s hand in his own.

Derek laced their fingers together and gave Stiles’ hand a gentle squeeze.

The picture faded, replaced by the portrait of the female tribute of District Three – the one who had charged at Stiles and Geyer in the cornucopia. Next was both tributes of District Seven and finally the two Tributes of District Ten – Tracy and the other girl, the citizen who had been plucked from the crowd.

The music faded and the arena was plunged into darkness.

“Six dead,” Mason muttered.

“That leaves eighteen of us,” Geyer announced. “And we can’t trust the tributes from One, Two or Three.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Derek said quietly, tightening his hold on Stiles hand. “We have each other and that’s all that matters.”


	14. Chapter 14

Stiles stirred at the sound of rustling bushes and footsteps among the fallen leaves. He sat up quietly and reached for his spear. He rose to his feet, moving stealthily among the detritus the way he had learnt to when hunting outside the fence of District Twelve.

He tightened his grip on the spear.

A figure burst into the clearing, pulling up to a halt when he saw Stiles. He braced himself and drew his sword, using his free hand to usher a second figure – a smaller figure – behind his strongly-built stature.

The pale moonlight lit up his face.

“Brett?” Stiles whispered.

The boy seemed to be stunned for a moment, it took him a second to recognise Stiles. He drew in a deep breath and lowered his swords.

The smaller figure stepped out from behind Brett and two more figures emerged from the shadows of the trees: Lori, Noshiko and Satomi.

“Are you all okay?” Stiles asked.

“We’re alright,” Satomi assured him. “Scared but unharmed. How are you?”

“We’ve had some close calls,” Stiles admitted. “Derek got electrocuted by a barrier and I got swarmed by jabberjays.”

The others began to stir.

Derek sprung to his feet, grabbing his axe and readying himself for action.

Stiles leapt in front of the older boy and grabbed Derek’s wrist. He spoke quietly, calming Derek and convincing him to lower his axe.

It took everyone a moment to recognise the friendly faces and calm their nerves.

Stiles glanced over Derek’s shoulder. He squinted at the thin veil of clouds that rolled through the trees, wisps of pale grey fog churning and swirling as it rolled across the ground.

“Stiles?” Derek called.

“Something’s not right,” the boy muttered.

“It’s just fog,” Geyer tried to assure him. “When cool vapour hits the warm earth it steams and makes a cloud.”

“Yeah,” Stiles whispered. “But fog gathers in ditches where it’s cooler.”

“What’s your point?” Hayden asked, anxiety tweaking at her voice as the wall of mist came closer.

“We’re uphill.”

Thin tendrils of fog brushed against the exposed skin of Stiles’ hand.

An agonising scream tore its way out of Stiles’ lungs as the mist burnt his flesh. It felt like his skin was pulling away from his bones, his pores swelling with acid and erupting in blisters.

He stumbled backwards, hitting the ground with a solid thud.

“Run!” he howled.

Derek helped Stiles to his feet.

Stiles cradled his burning hand to his chest and picked up his gleaming silver spear. He stumbled slightly as he sprinted through the forest.

His feet thumped against the ground, kicking up rocks and clumps of dirt as he wove his way through the trees. He thumped into a few trees and bounced off the trunks with a grunt.

 _Run_ , he told himself. _Just run._

A pained yelp caught his attention.

“Lori!” Brett screamed from up ahead.

“I’ve got her,” Stiles shouted, sprinting up to the girl’s side. “Just keep going.”

Brett reluctantly followed instructions.

Stiles lifted Lori’s arm around his shoulders, ignoring the searing pain of his blistering skin, and helped her hobble forward.

“Just leave me,” Lori whimpered.

“No,” Stiles growled, shifting his hold on her and supporting most of her weight so they could move faster.

They stumbled about in the darkness, the labyrinth of trees disorientating them and the pounding of blood in their ears drowning out the sounds of the rest of the group.

A figure appeared from the darkness, grabbing Lori’s other arm and taking the rest of her weight.

“Mason,” Stiles snapped. “I told you to run.”

“You can’t carry her on your own,” the younger boy argued.

“Fine, just keep moving,” Stiles called over the crackling and hissing of the fog as it loomed over them.

Thick vines entrapped them and threatened to trip them up as they ran. Fallen palm fronds and branches scratched at their ankles, tearing at the fine threads of their suits.

The air in their lungs was ablaze and burning them from the inside out. Stiles was panting ruggedly, sweat dripping from his forehead as his vision began to blur.

The fog caught up to them. Tendrils of smoky wisps grabbed Stiles’ ankles, burning the flesh and making him cry out in pain.

Lori suffered the same fate.

The group hit the ground, toppling down the small embankment.

Stiles reached out and grabbed hold of Lori. He pulled her close and used his body to shield her.

His back thumped against jagged rocks. Knife-like palm fronds and rough slate tore at the exposed patches of his skin.

They hit the ground with a solid thud, groaning in pain and shuddering as the shock set in.

The thick blanket of fog hit an invisible wall with a resonating boom, crashing and falling back on itself like a wave against the craggy shore.

The fog began to dissipate. The arena was plunged into a dark abyss.

Stiles rolled onto his back, looking down at Lori who lay in his arms.

She shuddered and whimpered.

Beside her, Stiles could hear a second lot of pained grunts and whimpers. Mason.

 _They’re alive_ , Stiles told himself, his head lulling about.

He blinked heavily, feeling his pant leg grow warm and wet. He grimaced at the pain that radiated out of his thigh. He sat up slightly, looking down at the torn patch of his suit.

Dark blood pooled around the wound, soaking into the fibres of his suit.

The spout of the spile had pierced his flesh, burrowing itself into the thick pink scar tissue that served as a constant reminder of how last year’s Games ended.

Stiles let out a few rugged breaths, collapsing weakly against the cool earth.

Lori shuddered in his arms, her breathing shallow as she whimpered and cried. Faint wisps of lingering mist burnt at her flesh and her body was trembling violently.

The thundering crescendo of noise began to dim as the world faded and Stiles slipped from consciousness.

Stiles let a weak breath roll past his lips as his heavy eyelids fell shut.


	15. Chapter 15

Stiles blinked his eyes open, staring up at the twinkling lights beyond the treetops.

He hadn’t been lying there for long; the final few wisps of fog were still dissipating.

 _We have to keep moving_ , he thought.

He drew in a deep breath and rolled onto his side, wincing as searing pain tore through his body. The rough dirt and scattered twigs scratched at his blisters as he moved. He gasped and sniffed back his sobs as tears of agony welled in his eyes.

He collapsed onto his front and dragged himself forward.

He gasped as his hands sank into cool mud.

 _Water,_ he thought, a wave of relief washing over him. He dragged himself forward until his hands were submerged beneath the cool liquid.

He yelped and cried out in pain as the toxins stung his skin. But, sure enough, the glistening water began to wash away the irritants, clearing his skin and relieving his blisters. The inflammations disappeared and the toxic fog was washed away from his skin like swirls of dirt.

Inch by inch, he dragged himself forward and submerged himself in the pool.

He drifted across the water’s surface.

“The water…” he called to Mason and Lori. “It helps. Come into the water.”

He heard pained grunts as Mason moved towards the small pool. The younger boy gasped and groaned as he dragged himself forward and sank into the water.

“Lori,” Stiles called.

She didn’t move.

Stiles waded back to the edge of the pool and climbed up the muddy ledge. He hobbled over to the young girl’s side and lifted her into his arms.

Blisters covered her olive skin and the shoulder-length strands of straw-blonde hair were muddy, tousled and sticking to her sweat-soaked face. Her body shuddered violently in his hold.

“Is she okay?” Mason asked.

“The cannon hasn’t fired,” Stiles replied. “She still has a chance.”

Stiles stumbled slightly as he limped back to the pool of water. He held onto Lori, walking into the small lake one step at a time. He held her close, whispering softly to her as she whimpered at the rush of pain.

She settled in his arms, trusting him as he lowered her into the water and spooned handfuls of water across her face to clear away the bright red blisters that marred her face. Her frail eyelashes fluttered as the pain subsided and she came back to her senses.

Stiles held onto her as she cleaned the toxins off her arms and legs.

When he was sure she could manage on his own, he pulled himself out of the water and drew his knife from its sheath. He cut off a section of his shoelace and motioned for Lori to come closer. Her pulled her hair back and tied the cord around it.

A few strands fell around her face but most of it was held back.

She thanked him.

Stiles offered his hand and helped Lori climb out of the muddy sludge.

Once she was on solid ground again, Stiles reached for Mason.

The younger boy froze.

“Mason,” Stiles said quietly. “Come on.”

“Stiles,” Lori whimpered from behind him.

“Yeah?”

“How’s your leg?” she asked, keeping her voice quiet and low.

“Not in the best condition. Why?” Stiles asked.

As soon as the words left his mouth, he noticed what they were looking at. Dark shadows moved about the inky black abyss of night, luminescent white eyes watching them. The creatures bared their dirty ivory-like teeth, saliva dripping from their long fangs as they hissed, grunted and howled. The creatures moved about the tree branches and pranced about among the large palm fronds.

Stiles kept his eyes on the creatures, watching as the indistinguishable silhouettes moved about. He reached out towards Mason and whispered, “Come here… slowly.”

Mason moved stealthily, wading across the undulating pool and taking Stiles’ hand.

Stiles helped him out of the water and up onto dry land.

“We need to run,” Lori muttered. “Now.”

“Move!” Stiles shouted.

They ran.

Stiles’ feet hit the ground. He used a hand to steady himself against tree trunks and push himself forward, his leg aching and burning as another wave of blood poured from the wound.

He sprinted through the dense forest, weaving his way through the labyrinth of thick tree trunks and the entrapping nets of entangled vines. He sprung over the fallen trees, broken branches, dead fronds and thick shrubs, his nimble legs and spring-locked ankles projecting him over the large logs. The thick undergrowth dragged at his feet. He tried to keep himself upright, struggling not to stumble or trip as they scurried downhill.

He limped and dragged his leg behind him, adrenalin coursing his veins as the sounds of screeching and hooting grew louder and the creatures drew closer.

“Where are we going?” Mason called over his shoulder.

“Head to the beach,” Stiles shouted back. “Get away from the trees!”

Lori had disappeared ahead of them.

Mason looked back at Stiles, worried that the older boy wouldn’t be able to keep up.

“Keep going,” Stiles called.

Mason nodded, panting as he stumbled about. His foot fell into a divot and his ankle buckled beneath him. He collapsed to the ground.

Stiles sprinted to his side.

The creatures loomed over them.

Stiles dropped to his knees, struggling to lift the boy back up onto his feet.

Something in the tree beside them shifted.

The bark pulled away from the trunk and morphed into a figure.

The mysterious figure leapt in front of the boys, using his body to shield them.

The creatures leapt from the branches, jagged teeth and claws tearing at the newcomer’s back. Blood erupted from the wounds, sprayed across the boy’s ivory flesh, the surrounding trees and Stiles’ face as he looked up at the illuminated silhouette.

Crimson streams caressed the boy’s curves, running across his neck, chest, shoulders, arms and waist. Small droplets fell to the ground, shattering like glass against the cool earth and stirring up small clouds of dust.

The boy’s face was creased with pain but he took each and every blow without making a sound. His body wavered slightly, but he refused to give in, standing strong and proud and defending Stiles and Mason.

Then, as suddenly as the barrage had started, the creatures left, hollering and shrieking as they clambered back through the branches and back uphill.

A thin stream of silver light broke through the trees, illuminating the face of the boy who stood like a towering figure.

“Corey,” Stiles gasped.

The young boy collapsed to his knees.

“Mason, give me a hand,” Stiles instructed, lifting one of Corey’s arms around his shoulder. Mason picked up the boy’s other arm and helped Stiles carry the boy’s painted body towards the shore, both him and Stiles limping as they did.

As they arrived on the shore, Lori helped Stiles hold Corey upright as Mason hurried across the rocky ledge and into the cornucopia. He grabbed a large tarp and sprinted back to the shore, laying it down across the sand so that Stiles and Lori could lay Corey on top of it.

Stiles passed Lori the spile and a plastic bottle from within the mess of torn canvas that was his bag. He instructed her to fetch some fresh water.

She nodded and hurried back with a bottleful of water.

Stiles held it to Corey’s lips, helping the boy drink a few mouthfuls before pouring the rest over his body to clear away the paint and mud and clean his wounds.

“Stiles,” Mason gasped, his voice strained by fear and worry as his dark chocolate eyes looked down at Corey’s bare chest.

“He’s burnt,” Mason pointed out. “Badly.”

Stiles shuffled around the tarp and looked at what had Mason so worried.

Thick pink ripples were spread across half of Corey’s torso, covering his upper arm, his chest and down side with a few strips spread across to his waist and his ribs on the other side of his toned body. Sections of his ivory flesh were charred and weeping blisters covered the irritated skin beneath the layers of mud and paint that he had covered himself with.

“He needs medicine,” Stiles announced. “Lori, can you see if you can find some?”

Lori nodded and scurried across the craggy paths back towards the cornucopia.

Their chances were slim to none; the cornucopia had been raided for every last resource that was considered helpful: weapons, food, medicine, and packs.

A minute or so later, Lori returned, her face fallen in defeat as she told him, “There’s nothing left.”

Corey’s breathing was shallow and raspy. His body shuddered.

“Wrap the tarp over him,” Stiles instructed, clearing away the mud, blood and paint and wrapped the crackling plastic tarp around Corey’s trembling body. “It’ll help him fight the shock and keep his keep his body warm a little longer.”

“But we can’t help him until we get medicine,” Mason added.

“I know, but we can help him fight just a little longer.”

As if his prayers were answered, a quiet twinkling rang out across the arena as a care package floated down towards them on a reflective parachute.

Stiles caught it and turned it towards the moonlight, reading the curved number above the latch.

“Which District?” Mason asked.

“Nine,” Stiles replied, letting out a sigh of relief as he undid the latch and opened the parcel.

Inside was a jar of cream and a small note.

Stiles read the note:

 

APPLY GENEROUSLY AND KEEP HIM SAFE.

WE’RE ALL WITH YOU.

 

Stiles set the note aside and unscrewed the lid on the large jar. He unwrapped the tarp and dipped his fingers into the thick cream.

Mason helped him roll Corey onto his side.

Stiles smeared the cream across the thick gashes across the boy’s back. He then turned his attention to the scar tissue on the boy’s chest, lathering the rippling burnt skin with the cream.

“Will it work?” Mason asked, slightly panicked that there weren’t instant results.

“It’ll help but it’ll take a few hours,” Stiles said calmly.

Stiles reached for the lid, but Corey caught his hand and stopped him.

“Your leg,” the boy muttered. “Use it on your leg too.”

“It’s your medicine, your care package,” Stiles reminded him, trying to politely refuse the boy’s offer even though – truth be told – he did need it.

“I want you to have some,” Corey insisted.

“Okay,” Stiles said appreciatively. “Thank you.”

The older boy dipped his fingers in the cream and lathered it across the hole in his leg. He felt a cool rush as the medicine soaked into his skin.

He screwed the lid back onto the jar and set it inside his backpack before zipping it shut. He set the torn canvas bag aside and settled down in the sand.

Lori joined him.

“I’ll stand guard,” she whispered.

“I’m fine,” Stiles dismissed.

“You really need sleep,” Lori pointed out. “I’ll wake you at sunrise unless something happens.”

“Thanks,” Stiles muttered, laying down in the sand. He pulled his backpack close and used it as a pillow. He didn’t feel safe or comfortable, but he was too exhausted to care. He let out a weak sigh and let his heavy eyelids fall shut.

 

A thundering crack woke him with a jolt.

His heart thumped against his ribs, his breathing thin and rugged as he looked around in fear.

The sky was dark but strobing with light.

Stiles turned to face the source, his eyes focusing on the dark silhouette of a tree in the distance.

Forked lightning struck the tree top, over and over again.

“Three, four, five, six,” Stiles counted, watching as the lightning bolts crackled and thumped like a chiming clock. Every strike was different, but it hit its mark with precision. “Seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve.”

Nothing.

The night was immersed in silence as darkness returned to the arena.

“The hell was that?” Lori muttered from beside Stiles.

“I don’t know,” Stiles replied, steadying his breathing. “It’s not normal.”

“What do you mean?” Lori asked.

“Lightning doesn’t strike the same place twice, let alone twelve times,” Stiles explained. “It’s probably some sick trick the Gamemakers thought up to make sure none of us sleep.”

“Alright then,” the girl whispered. “Let’s not let them win. Get some sleep.”

Stiles laid back down on the sand, pulling the backpack under his head. He curled up in a ball, shivering as he tried to fall back asleep again.


	16. Chapter 16

Stiles blinked his eyes open to the pale light of the sunrise. The sky was streaked with bright shades of crimson and orange as the artificial sun began to rise into the sky. The golden light bathed the sand and warmed their surroundings.

Stiles drew in a deep breath, smelling the salty water that rippled nearby and the bittersweet petrichor that was tainted by the humidity.

He sat upright and looked across the sand to where the others were: Lori was raiding the cornucopia for any more bottles and filling as many containers as she could with fresh water from the spile, Mason was back on his feet and talking quietly to Corey who was moving about and flexing his muscles to test his mobility. The burns on his chest had faded and the thick gashes on his back had healed to salmon-coloured scars.

Lori tossed him a singlet she had found among the mess in the cornucopia.

He thanked her and pulled it on, covering up his pale flesh and toned muscles.

“Why should I bother fighting?” he heard Corey ask Mason. “There’s no-one for me to go home to.”

“What are you talking about?” Mason said, shocked. “You have your family.”

“My family don’t care about me. I’m a burden to them, the kid they didn’t want,” Corey explained. “In fact, when my name was called at the Reapings and they came to say goodbye to me, they said, ‘Thank God it was you’. No-one in my District cares about me.”

“Someone does,” Mason argued. “They cared enough to send you the care package.”

“Or someone sent it for them,” Corey countered. “What did the note say? ‘Keep him safe’? That’s not from anyone in my District. No-one wants me to come back. No-one needs me.”

“I need you,” Mason replied.

Corey was stunned. It took him a second to regain his senses, his expression slowly fading from a shocked look to something soft and sweet, a genuine mix of bashfulness and joy. When he finally regained his composure, he took a step forward, looked the boy in the eye and whispered, “Then stay with me.”

“I can’t,” Mason muttered.

“Why not?”

“Because of where we are,” Mason replied. “Only one of us comes out of this arena alive and I know that’s not going to be me.”

“Why not?” Corey repeated.

“Stop asking me that. I know you’re not one of the bad guys, but you’re a fighter: you stand a chance of surviving this.”

“Good guys or bad guys, fighter or not, at the end of this it’s not going to make any difference,” Corey pointed out. “Either you survive or you don’t. I want to be alive, don’t you?”

“Not if I’m left standing as one of the bad guys,” Mason argued.

“So a bad guy is anyone desperate enough to fight for their life or loved ones?” Corey asked.

“No, that’s not what I meant,” Mason replied. “I just don’t want to have to kill anyone in order to survive. I don’t want to become cold-hearted and merciless like the Careers.”

“How about with me?” Corey asked, taking a step closer to Mason. His dark eyes flickered with emotion as he glanced from the younger boy’s eyes to his lips and back again as he whispered, “Stay alive with me.”

Corey leant in close and brushed his lips against Mason’s in a delicate kiss. He drew back slowly, resting his forehead against Mason’s.

Mason’s breath caught in his lungs, his eyes fluttering shut and his lips quivering slightly.

“Fine,” Mason whispered, making Corey smile sweetly. “But if it comes to it, you’re getting out of here, not me.”

Corey shook his head.

“We’re getting out of this,” he promised Mason. “Together.”

Mason reached for Corey, cupping the boy’s face in his hands and bringing their lips together again. He slid his hands up to the back of Corey’s neck, the tips of his fingers brushing against Corey’s dark hair.

He sighed as he melted into Corey’s warmth.

Corey settled his hands on the younger boy’s hips, steadying him and pulling him closer.

The kiss was messy and passionate.

Slowly they drew apart, panting for breath.

“We’ll be okay,” Corey whispered.

Something rustled among the thicket.

Stiles leapt to his feet and grabbed his spear.

Lori tossed the bottles of water to Corey and sprinted to Stiles’ side, her batons at the ready.

Corey packed the bottles of water into the backpack and pulled it onto his back. He took a hold of Mason’s hand, getting ready to run.

Stiles’ heartbeat pounded against his ribs. He tightened his grip and tried to steady his rugged breathing. His burning glare was focused on the tree line.

Five figures emerged and pulled up to a halt.

Stiles’ heart skipped a beat.

He dropped his spear and sprinted forwards, practically falling into Derek’s arms.

Derek let out a sigh of relief, enveloping Stiles in his warmth and holding him close as he muttered over and over, “Thank God you’re okay.”

Lori sprinted into her brother’s arms, sobbing as he held her close.

Geyer rushed over to Mason’s side, carrying a very exhausted Hayden on his back. He carefully set the tired girl down on the sand and checked on Mason’s condition. The boy dismissed him, turning his caring attention to Corey.

Geyer checked on Corey’s wounds and told him to put more of the healing cream on it in an hour or two and rest for the day.

Marie-Jeanne, Satomi and Noshiko waited patiently.

Corey dropped the bag and pulled out two bottles of water, offering one to the two elderly women and the other to his fellow tribute.

They thanked him and gulped down mouthfuls of water before passing it around to Brett and Derek.

Tears of relief fell from Stiles’ eyes as he buried his face on the curve of Derek’s shoulder, clawing at fistfuls of Derek’s jumpsuit and holding him close.

Derek pressed a kiss into the mess of tousled chestnut locks atop Stiles’ head and whispered sweet nothings to the boy.

“We’re okay,” Derek whispered. “We’re okay.”

 

After a few hours, the group sent out a small party to forage for food. Stiles, Noshiko and Satomi were the ones with an extensive knowledge of edible plants and herbal remedies, so they were the first to join the parties. Brett and Marie-Jeanne joined them as means of protecting them – Derek reluctantly agreeing to stay on the beach and protect Geyer, Hayden, Corey and Mason despite their protests – and Lori refused to leave her brother’s side again, so she joined the party too.

The group stalked through the bush, hiking uphill and collecting fruits and nuts from the tropical trees.

After a few minutes, the backpack was full of food and Stiles proposed that they head back to the others.

The group turned and froze.

A figure stalked up the hill towards them. Limp strands of his dark hair clung to his sweat-soaked forehead. A vicious, animalistic snarl was set on his face and his onyx eyes were predatory as he narrowed his glare on the group.

District One: Donovan Donati.

It was six-on-one, but they knew he could take them. He knew he could stand his ground.

He was a Career after all.

Noshiko drew her sword and stepped forward. Satomi drew her daggers and joined her friend.

Stiles grabbed Marie-Jeanne’s hand, stopping her from intervening.

Satomi kept her voice level and dominating as she told the children, “Run.”

Brett grabbed Lori’s hand and ran.

Stiles held onto Marie-Jeanne’s wrist and sprinted through the undergrowth.

Nimble limbs projected them over fallen logs and uphill. They wove their way through the vines and ridged tree trunks, their hearts pounding and breathing shallow as they urged their burning muscles to move.

Two cannons fired.

The thundering booms tore through them, making them stumble to a halt.

Brett slowly turned around, his eyes wide and glittering with pain as he screamed their names. Tears rolled down his cheeks. He seemed hollow, a shell of the man he was.

Despite being from another District, they had been his mentors, his guardians, and his friends. They had offered him advice and helped him fight his way through the Games.

Lori grabbed her brother’s wrist, gently jostling him.

“Brett, we have to keep running,” Lori whimpered, fighting back her own sobs.

Brett took a few steps backwards in the direction they were meant to be running but froze.

He didn’t turn.

He didn’t run.

He kept his pained blue eyes on the shadows of the trees behind them.

“Brett!” Lori cried.

Her brother snapped back to reality.

He grabbed her hand and ran forward.

Marie-Jeanne and Stiles spun around and continued to run, leading the way through the thick maze of greenery.

Something caught Marie-Jeanne’s eye as she ran, the carved markings that marred a trunk of one of the trees and exposed its pale flesh.

“There’s a ridge up ahead,” Marie-Jeanne warned. “Get ready to jump.”

Stiles nodded and followed her lead.

She leapt across the chasm with grace and precision.

Stiles followed, stumbling slightly as he landed on the other side. His feet wheeled beneath him as he regained his balance and turned back for the others.

Brett jumped.

His body collided with the cliff-like face with a solid thud.

Stiles reached back for him and pulled him up onto the solid ground.

The cliff crumbled slightly, chunks of rock falling down into the ravine.

“Jump, Lori,” Brett called.

“I can’t,” Lori cried. “I won’t make it.”

“We’ll catch you,” Stiles promised.

“Come on, Lori,” Brett called to his sister.

Tears of fear coursed her cheeks. She took a few steps back and readied herself for a run up.

Her feet drummed against the earth as she ran forward, but she stopped just short of the ridge.

She gasped, her eyes wide with shock.

A heavy breath fell from her lips.

A cannon fired.

She toppled forward, her body rolling off the edge and into the ravine.

“Lori!” Brett howled, reaching over the edge for his sister.

Donovan emerged from the trees, his eyes fixed on them.

“Brett, look at me!” Stiles growled. “I know it hurts, but we have to go. If you stay and fight you’ll only die. You have to live, because if you don’t then no-one will stay and fight for her.”

“She was my sister,” Brett hissed through gritted teeth as he levelled his eyes with Donovan.

“I know… I know what it’s like to lose family, to lose someone you love, but if you stay here and wait for Donovan, then you will die for nothing and there will be no-one left to carry on her memory.”

Brett was not persuaded.

“Brett! Look at me!” Stiles snapped. “If Lori was alive, do you think she’d let you stand here and wait to die?”

“No…” Bret replied. “But she’s not here”

Stiles knew it useless to try. He knew Brett couldn’t be swayed; he was determined, ready to avenge his sister.

“Go,” Brett growled as he drew his sword and readied himself to fight Donovan. “I’ll buy you some time.”

Marie-Jeanne snatched up Stiles’ hand and pulled him away.

The Career leapt across the chasm, daggers in hand and ready to fight.

Marie-Jeanne pulled at Stiles’ hand again.

Stiles stumbled slightly as he followed her, sprinting through the bushes.

Sweat dripped from his pores, stinging his eyes as he dove through curtains of vines.

He wove his way through the labyrinth of thick tree trunks. He leapt over the fallen trees, broken branches and thick shrubs. His nimble legs and spring-locked ankles projected him over the large logs. The thick undergrowth and claw-like twigs dragged at his feet. He struggled to keep himself upright, trying not to stumble or trip as he sprinted away from the massacre.

The sounds began to drown away as he ran further and further into the dense forest.

He glanced ahead, trying to focus his blurred vision on the wavering figure in front of him. He watched the rippling waves of her dark hair bounce off her shoulders as she moved with confidence and grace.

His pace faltered slightly as a wave of déjà vu washed over him.

The name fell past his lips before he could stop it: “Allison.”

A cannon fired, drawing him back to reality.

He stumbled slightly, glancing behind himself.

Brett was gone.

He turned around and followed Marie-Jeanne.

Marie-Jeanne slowed to a halt by a stream, glancing back downhill. She was panting, her frail shoulders rising and falling with her heavy breaths. Strands of her dark hair were clinging to her pale skin.

“We’re safe, right?” Stiles said quietly.

“Stiles, look out!”

Marie-Jeanne shoved him aside.

Something whistled past him as he fell to the ground.

Marie-Jeanne adjusted her grip on her pike and hurled it down at the approaching figure in one smooth motion.

The spear head tore into Donovan’s shoulder, making him cry out as he stumbled backwards. He pulled it out, pressing his hand to his shoulder as he turned and vanished into the shadows of the trees.

“Stiles,” Marie-Jeanne whimpered, her voice weak and raspy.

Stiles felt a chill roll down his spine.

 _Not again_ , he begged silently. _Not again_.

He turned to face her.

Her dark brown eyes were misted with tears as her slender fingers coiled around the thick pole that jutted out of her chest.

“No,” Stiles cried as she drew it out of her body.

Streams of thick blood gushed from the wound.

She whimpered and choked on her breath, collapsing to the ground.

Stiles sprinted to her side, dropping to his knees and lifting her into his arms.

“No, no, no,” he pleaded, pressing his hand to the gaping wound. Streams of hot, sticky blood spilled over his trembling hands.

Crystal-like tears streaked her cheeks, clearing away the dirt and grime that smeared her face.

“I’m so sorry,” Stiles whispered, his voice scratching at his throat as he stroked the dark waves of her hair.

“It’s not your fault,” Marie-Jeanne whimpered, her body trembling. “I’m so sorry.”

“No, no, no,” Stiles stammered.

Heavy tears broke past the bars of his eyelashes, splashing against the pale skin of her cheeks.

“Stiles, listen to me. You have to win,” she rasped. “Everyone is depending on you. You have to survive this…”

Stiles didn’t say anything; he was too panicked to reply. His mouth was dry and his throat hurt. His vision was streaked by tears that he desperately tried to blink away. He sniffed back his sobs and tried to think of something – anything – that would comfort her. But he was too late.

“You are a good man,” she whispered. “You deserve so much more than this.”

Her breathing grew shallow, frail wisps of air that passed her trembling lips. Marie-Jeanne shuddered in his arms, coughing and gasping for air. Blood dripped across her lips. She weakened in his hold, her body falling still and growing cold in his arms. Her breathing slowed and her eyelids fluttered shut. She seemed to relax, falling still in Stiles’ arms.

Her hand struck the ground as a cannon fired overhead.

Stiles held Marie-Jeanne close to his chest. His weak arms strained to hold her dead weight. He cried violently. Tears streamed down his cheeks, splashing against Marie-Jeanne’s ghostly-pale skin.

He pressed a tender kiss to her forehead and set her down on the grass, carefully lowering her body among the lush green blanket of moss by the riverbed.

In the distant noise of the world around him, he heard footsteps approach.

A husky voice whispered something to him as strong arms lifted him into a familiar warm embrace.

Stiles felt numb, tears streaking his face as he was carried back through the bush and down to the beach.


	17. Chapter 17

“We should be safe here,” Geyer said quietly. “The Careers aren’t willing to take on all of us at once.”

The daylight was fading and dusk was creeping in.

Stiles stared down at the grainy sand, watching how the rough surface wavered and dipped into peaks and valleys. He fiddled with his fingers, pulling at his long, slender digits and rubbing at the thin streaks of blood that were caught in the ridges of his knuckles or the cuticles of his nails.

No-one spoke.

Derek crossed over to Stiles’ side and offered him the bottle full of water.

Stiles didn’t react.

Derek carefully reached across and took the boy’s slender hands. He gently poured the water across Stiles’ hands and cleaned away the blood.

Stiles watched as the man very delicately ran the ball of his thumb over Stiles’ hand and handled him as if he were the most precious thing in the world.

Stiles tried to speak, his voice weak and hoarse as he whispered, “It was like losing Allison all over again… All of them… They’re all… Why me? Why did I survive?”

Derek didn’t have an answer for him.

The older boy laced his fingers through Stiles’ and held his hand.

“The worst thing is I can’t do the one thing I want to: I can’t honour them or give them dignity in their resting place,” Stiles muttered. “I just feel so useless. They deserve better than this.”

Derek reached across and pulled the boy close. He pressed a kiss to the crown of the boy’s head.

“You are honouring them like we did last year,” Derek whispered. “You fight for them and you remember them. And, as long as one person keeps their memory alive, you’re bringing them honour.”

“I don’t want to go home if this is how I have to win,” Stiles said quietly. “I don’t want to win if other people are dying for me.”

Derek opened his mouth to say something when the sky abruptly dimmed and lit up with the bright broadcasted symbol of the Capitol. The anthem echoed about the arena as the presentation began.

District Five’s Satomi Ito and Noshiko Yukimura. Each of their portraits lit up the sky, faces full of admirable wisdom and grace. Their faces slowly faded, replaced by the brilliant portraits of Brett and Lori with scrolling text beneath them that read ‘District 6’. Their portraits slowly faded, replaced by the bold image of a confidant young woman.

The portrait was stunning, as beautiful as she was in life. Her jaw was firm and framed by the cascading waves of dark curls. Her skin was radiant, glistening like her dark eyes. She held her composure, much like her father: her chin was tipped upwards with pride.

Marie-Jeanne was gorgeous.

 _Just like Allison_ , Stiles thought.

He gently brushed his fingers across the silver medallion beneath his jumpsuit.

Derek seemed stunned for a second – as if the similarities between the two girls had just dawned on him. He tightened his hold on Stiles’ hand, giving it a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

Stiles turned, looking over at Corey.

The boy was statuesque, unmoving as he stared up at the portrait with tear-filled eyes.

Mason stood beside him, their fingers laced together and their skin pulled taut over the ridges of their knuckles as he refused to release his vice grip on Corey’s hands.

The boy’s face was lit by the glow of the presentation, a glimmer of pain twinkling in his eyes as the image faded and the starry night sky returned.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles rasped.

“It’s not your fault,” Corey whispered. “I didn’t know her well, but she was from home.”

Stiles bowed his head.

Corey said what they were all thinking, “She was a lot like Allison: brave, strong and loving. She was a fighter, a warrior. And if she had to die, I’m glad she had someone there to hold her.” He blinked back the heavy tears that streaked his vision. “I’m glad she had you.”


	18. Chapter 18

“You have to eat something,” Geyer said softly, sitting down next to Stiles and offering some of the fruit they had foraged.

“I’m not hungry,” Stiles muttered, staring at the undulating sapphire pool of water.

“Stiles, eat,” Geyer instructed, more firmly this time.

The boy sighed and took the food from Geyer’s outstretched hand.

The man sat down next to him.

A moment of quiet passed between them before Geyer spoke up.

“I never got to thank you.”

“For what?” Stiles muttered, nibbing at the bitter sweet citrus.

“For Liam,” Geyer replied. “He wasn’t my biological child, but he was my son. And what you did for him and the other tributes was admirable. You brought them honour in their deaths and you brought their families peace and resolution. Hell, even I caved to the Capitol and read the speeches that made me sound like a soulless puppet who revelled in a victory I didn’t want. You’re a good man, better than most. You’re a hero.”

Stiles bowed his head. “It doesn’t come without consequences. Deucalion has ordered for others to be killed because of me and he has put my family and everyone I love in harm’s way. He thinks I’m a threat and the revolution that I’m inspiring could overthrow the Capitol. That’s why he organised these Games; he wanted the Careers to kill me and the rest of the victors to be annihilated so that no-one could start another revolution.” He drew in a deep breath. “I’m not a hero. It’s my fault you’re all in here, it’s my fault you’re all dying.”

“No, it’s Deucalion’s fault,” Geyer corrected.

There was another moment of quiet between them.

“I also owe you an apology,” Geyer added. “I thought it was all an act. I thought your relationship with Derek was nothing more than a media stunt. It wasn’t until he hit that barrier and his heart stopped that I realised you weren’t pretending. You really do love him, and he loves you. I have never seen someone as distraught as he was when that barrier went up and he had to watch on helplessly as you were attacked by jabberjays. So, I’m sorry I misjudged you. You’re a good man and you deserve a better life.”

Stiles blinked back heavy tears. His stomach churned with guilt as his chest ached and his heart pounded against his ribs.

“There is no life for me outside this arena, not anymore,” he whimpered. “Ever since the Games, Deucalion has had his eyes on me. There are cameras everywhere and everyone wants to know about the victors of the seventy-fifth Games. It’s a gaping wound that’s constantly reopened. And my family – those I love – are constantly under threat.”

“I’m not going to lie, it’s hard,” Geyer admitted. “But it does get easier with time.”

“It won’t for me,” Stiles whispered. “Everyone sees me as some figure for a revolution. I can’t stop them and I can’t help them either… I don’t know what to do.”

“What you need to do is get out of this alive,” Geyer instructed.

“How do we do that?” Stiles asked.

“Fight.”

Stiles turned to look at Geyer.

The man flinched as something hit his throat. He plucked a small dart from the taut skin of his neck.

It fell from his fingers as he leapt to his feet and grabbed his trident in a flurry of movement.

He blocked the incoming attack of one of the Careers: the boy from District Three, Sean.

He exchanged blows and fought back against the attacker.

“Stiles!” he shouted over his shoulder. Beads of sweat gathered on his brow and his dark eyes became unfocused. He gritted his teeth and fought back. “Get the others and run.”

Stiles panicked for a second as he realised Geyer’s movements were slowed. His dodges and blows were sloppy, but he somehow managed to land a few on Sean.

Stiles turned and picked up his heels, sprinting across the beach to grab Derek and Hayden.

“We have to go,” he called to them. “Now!”

Derek grabbed the backpack and his axe.

Mason helped Corey to his feet and turned to run.

There was a heavy thud behind them and the gut wrenching sound of breaking bones as a cannon fired overhead.

Hayden turned around, her eyes wide with fear.

“Geyer!” she cried, running over to the man’s limp body.

“Hayden, wait!” Stiles called, reaching out to stop her.

She dodged his grasp and sprinted past him.

“Hayden!” Derek howled.

Hayden screamed and charged at the Career.

Sean let out a low growl. He snarled like an animal, exposing his unhuman cluster of shark-like teeth.

Hayden lunged at him.

He caught a hold of the girl’s wrists and pulled her close. He sank his teeth into her throat and tore out her jugular.

Blood gushed from her wound, spilling over the sand.

Stiles and Derek ran to her side.

Derek grabbed Sean’s shoulders and hurled him away from Hayden.

Stiles hurried to the girl’s side and caught her limp body before she hit the ground. He pressed his hand to her gaping throat, holding her close as she rasped and gargled on her weak breaths.

Sean knocked Derek’s axe from his hand.

“Derek,” Stiles cried, panicked.

Derek’s cold glare was focused on Sean, his primal instincts and years of training as a Career began to kick in. He clenched his fist and slammed it into the teen’s jaw, knocking him off balance. He thumped Sean in the jugular, his rigid knuckles shattering bones and leaving the teen breathless. Derek leapt aside and quickly pulled the teen into a headlock. He grabbed Sean’s chin and jerked it aside.

A loud crack echoed about the open space as Sean fell still in Derek’s arms.

Derek released him, letting the teen fall to the ground as a second cannon fired overhead.

Derek’s broad shoulders heaved up and down as he panted rugged breaths.

The arena fell silent.

Stiles lifted Hayden into his arms and waded into the shallows of the water. He laid her body across the rippling surface and held her afloat.

The water lapped at her body, washing away the blood that coated her skin.

Streams of red began to diffuse into the water.

Her body wavered and shuddered. Tears fell from her eyes.

“It’s okay, I’m here,” Stiles whispered.

Her dark eyes drifted away from his, looking up at the thin wisps of clouds that drifted across the skies.

Stiles looked up, watching the sky shift between shades of pastel blue and deep sapphire.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Stiles whispered, fighting back his own sobs. “It’s like an ocean in the sky and the clouds are like sheets of ice that hold it all above us.”

Hayden seemed mesmerised by the boy’s rambling words.

“It’s so fragile. And I swear, one day the heavens are going to get too heavy with all of the innocent people who are up there: Liam, Geyer, Allison, and everyone one else. One day, the sky’s going to fall down around us.”

Hayden’s breathing was shallow as frail wisps of air fell past her trembling lips.

Her body fell still, her eyes drifting shut as her limp limbs floated on the surface of the water.

Another thundering boom cracked the air, shaking the tears free of Stiles’ eyes.

He cradled Hayden’s cold body against his chest and cried until he had no more tears left in him to give.

He felt his heart ache as he slowly let go of Hayden and left her frail body to drift across the surface of the water.

Derek stepped forward, and tried to gently encourage Stiles out of the shallows.

Stiles stood on the edge of the water, the cool waves lapping at the toes of his boots as he stared across the shimmering edge of the sapphire pool. He stayed there, staring into oblivion.

“It’s okay,” Derek whispered.

“No,” Stiles rasped. “No, it’s not.”

“There was nothing you could do,” Derek assured him, keeping his voice low and soft.

“There was,” Stiles muttered. “I could have stopped all of this if I had just died… I should have just killed myself.”

Derek shoved him into the water.

The boy stumbled and fell to the shallows. He pushed himself onto his knees, gasping for air and turning back with a mix of rage and confusion in his eyes.

Derek met his gaze with a cold glare.

“Derek, what the hell?” Mason yelped, rushing to their side.

“You awake yet, or should I dunk you in the water again?” Derek growled.

Stiles rose to his feet, limping slightly as he waded out of the water.

“You want to die, go ahead,” Derek said bluntly. “There’s a whole pool of water to drown yourself in. Or you could make it quick and use your knife.”

Stiles felt his heart sink into his stomach.

“Or maybe you want to go for a nice little stroll through the arena until you find a Career and then you can ask them to kill you. And when you reach whatever afterlife there is, you can explain to Allison and Paige, and Deaton, Brett and Lori, your mum, Geyer and everyone else there why you let them down. You can tell them all that their sacrifices were in vain and their deaths meant nothing. Then, after some time, you can explain to your dad, Scott, Isaac, Laura and everyone else why you gave up on them.”

“I haven’t given up on them!” Stiles retorted.

“Really? Because I don’t see you fighting for them.”

Derek took a step forward, his pale eyes shimmering as he towered over the boy. The rage in his aventurine depths faded as he lowered his voice.

“None of this is your fault,” he said, annunciating every word. “You volunteered for Scott, yes, but you didn’t pick his name or start the Hunger Games. Allison died protecting you and that’s not your fault; you didn’t kill her or anyone else that you blame yourself for. And you didn’t put us in this goddamn arena, Deucalion did. So wake up, Stiles! You need to remember who’s to blame here, and it’s not you.”

Derek took another step forward.

“And remember the promise I made you?” Derek held up his hand, showing Stiles the gleaming silver band that was coiled around his finger. “Till death do us part.”

Stiles drew in a deep breath and looked up at Derek. He couldn’t hold his gaze, feeling guilty about everything he had said.

“I promised I’d stand by you until the end and I will,” Derek whispered. “And if you die, I will follow you.”

Stiles shook his head, tears burning at his eyes and falling down his cheeks. He rested his head against Derek’s chest and sobbed.

Derek wound his arms around Stiles and held him close. He cupped the back of the boy’s head and pressed a tender kiss to the crown of his head.

“I can’t lose you too,” Stiles sobbed. “Please, I can’t lose you too.”

 

They stayed on the beach until the light began to dwindle.

At some point, a hover craft flew into the arena and took away the bodies of the fallen tributes.

Derek filled their bottles with water and carried all of their supplies into the cornucopia.

Mason and Corey settled down in the shadows and curled up in each other’s arms to sleep. Mason had nestled his back against Corey and held onto the hand that was coiled around his waist, holding him close in the comfort and security of Corey’s arms.

Occasionally, Mason would let out a whimper. But every time he did Corey would pull him closer or shuffle forward and snuggle into the boy’s warmth.

Derek found a torn up sleeping bag among the scavenged ruins of the cornucopia and laid it down across a smooth section of the rocky platform.

Stiles sat on the edge of the platform, his feet dangling into the water. The scintillating pool glistened in the moonlight.

Derek sighed at the sight of the boy and made his way over to Stiles. He sat down next to the boy and waited.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles whispered. “I love you.”

Derek slung his arm around the boy’s shoulders and held him close. He nuzzled his face into the crown of the boy’s head.

“You’re not the only one who feels like they’ve failed others,” Derek whispered. “I live every day with what happened to my mum and my sisters. After all of that, I shied away from people because I was scared I was going to hurt them. Then you and Allison came into my life and you brought me out of the shadows. Maybe if I hadn’t been hit by the paralysis dart or if I had fought off Ennis sooner, Allison wouldn’t have died.”

“No,” Stiles muttered, shaking his head. “Don’t do this to yourself. You’re not to blame.”

“And you aren’t either,” Derek repeated. “My point is, it’s survivor’s guilt. We blame ourselves because we felt helpless, both then and now.”

“I don’t want to feel helpless,” Stiles said quietly.

“Then fight this with me,” Derek whispered. He pulled the ring from his finger and slid it onto Stiles’ slender finger. “Till death do us part.”

Their moment was interrupted as the sky lit up with the bright symbol of the Capitol and the anthem began to play.

Stiles didn’t look. There were only three cannon fires that day and he knew who they were for: District Three’s Sean and District Four’s Geyer and Hayden.

The music slowly faded and the darkness returned.

Stiles looked up at Derek, sliding his hand into the older boy’s and giving it a gentle reassuring squeeze.

Derek looked down at him, his aventurine eyes sparkling in the moonlight.

Stiles voice was quiet but strong as he said, “No-one one else dies. I’m going to fight.”


	19. Chapter 19

“Derek!” a voice called from the other side of the beach.

“Marin?” Derek shouted back as he raced to her side with Stiles on his heels. “Are you okay?”

“It’s not my blood,” she muttered, wiping the layer of thick ooze from her face.

“What happened?” Stiles asked.

“I went to find your friends and when I did we spent the past two days walking about without water or food. So when it started raining, we opened our mouths and lifted out heads to the sky. And only when I swallowed a mouthful of said ‘rain’ did I realise it tasted like blood: thick, bitter and copper.”

“Where are the others?” Derek asked.

Marin pointed to the tree line.

The Mute emerged from the shadows, supporting Meredith as she stumbled about on her frail legs, mumbling something over and over again.

“Is everyone okay?” Derek asked.

“Yeah,” Marin replied. “Just so you know, one doesn’t talk and the other won’t stop talking.”

“Tick, tock,” Meredith whispered, her bright eyes looking about the open space. “Tick, tock.”

Marin drew in a deep breath and added, “And nothing she says makes sense.”

“Okay, okay,” Stiles said softly. He looked up at the Mute and signed the words he spoke. “Why don’t we wash off the blood and then you can have some fresh water and fruit?”

The Mute nodded, helping Stiles guide Meredith into the shallows.

“Tick tock,” the girl muttered, swinging her arms about in the water like a child. She liked down at the spirals of blood that pooled around her as it was washed away from her pale skin. “Tick tock.”

“Yeah,” Stiles cooed like a mother encouraging a babbling baby. “Tick tock.”

Meredith relaxed in his arms, letting him lay her back and wash the blood from her short, permed hair. She sat upright again and splashed her face with water, clearing away the crimson smears.

The Mute sat in the soggy sand beside them, reluctant to leave Meredith’s side. The intimidating man was cleaning himself and the gleaming silver blade of his axe.

Corey and Mason were waiting on the shore with bottles of water and fruit for the newcomers to eat when they were clean.

“Tick tock,”Meredith repeated. “Tick tock.”

“Okay, Meredith,” Stiles said softly. “Let’s get back up on the beach, yeah?”

The girl nodded and waded ashore.

“Are you okay?” Stiles asked the Mute, signing his words.

The man nodded.

“Okay, I’ll just be up there with Meredith. When you’re done, come and have something to eat.”

The man nodded again.

Stiles turned and made his way ashore.

Meredith was crouched on the beach and drawing in the sand. She dragged her finger around in a circle before drawing lines through it. Between each line she put two dots and in the centre, where the lines intersected, she drew a large, askew shape. At the top of the circle she drew a jagged line, a lightning bolt.

Stiles crouched down beside her, looking at her drawing.

She turned her eyes to him. “Tick tock. Tick tock.”

“A clock?” he asked quietly.

Meredith nodded. She pointed from her drawing to the cornucopia and repeated, “Tick tock.”

“Meredith, you’re brilliant.” Stiles rose to his feet and looked around.

Meredith staggered slightly as she lifted her weight onto her frail legs. She sprinted across the rocky paths towards the cornucopia.

Stiles followed after her.

She pointed at the large tree in the distance of the northern horizon. “Tick tock.”

Heavy footsteps trailed behind them as the others caught up.

“What’s going on?” Derek asked.

“It’s a clock,” Stiles gasped. “The arena is a clock.”

“Tick tock,” Meredith repeated, confirming what the boy had said.

Derek’s brow furrowed with confusion. “I don’t understand.”

“Tick tock,” Meredith whispered, seemingly frustrated that no-one else understood them.

“Twelve paths, twelve hours,” Stiles tried to explain. “That’s why they put the barriers up; every section is divided into an hour’s worth of torture: poison fog, jabberjays, mutated creatures, blood rain, fire, and whatever else the Gamemakers’ sick minds could come up with.”

Derek nodded, seeming to follow the boy’s logic.

Stiles pointed at the large tree uphill and said, “At twelve o’clock, every day and night, lightning strikes that tree twelve times like the chiming of an old clock.”

Stiles paused.

It was quiet.

“Meredith?”

He turned around.

The girl stared at him, eyes wide with shock as an arrowhead pierced her chest. Her body weakened. Her legs wavered beneath her and she fell back into the water.

“Meredith!” Stiles cried out, diving in after her.

The water crashed around him, foaming as it consumed him. He dove down into the depths, the air burning his lungs as he wound his arms around Meredith’s frail body. He braced his feet against the bottom of the pond and pushed them back up to the surface.

They burst into the open, gasping for air.

Stiles waded into the shallows, noticing the shifting figures as Derek, Marin and the Mute tore off into the trees after the attacker.

Meredith was sobbing in his arms.

He pulled her into his lap, gently shushing her as he caressed her cheek softly.

“Tick tock,” she gasped, her trembling lips splattered with blood as her breathing became shallow and weak.

“Yeah,” Stiles whispered. “You did it. You worked it out.”

Tears began to well in her eyes.

“Shh,” Stiles said softly. “It’s alright.”

He had to think quickly.

His throat was dry as he began to hum the familiar tune of a nursery rhyme.

She began to settle and relax in his arms, her shallow breathing evening out as the soft melody he hummed began to calm her. Her eyes fluttered shut, a small smile lifting the corners of her lips. She looked as if she were just falling asleep in his arms.

At least it did until the thundering boom of a cannon fired overhead, quickly followed by a second.

 

Stiles sat down on the beach, staring down at the drawing Meredith had scrawled in the sand.

At some point in time, a hovercraft had entered the arena and taken away her body, leaving the group in saddened silence.

A large figure made his way over to Stiles’ side and sat down next to the boy.

“I failed,” Stiles rasped, moving his hands in a flurry of gestures as he spoke. “I promised no-one else would die and I failed. I’m sorry.”

The Mute shook his head.

‘You have not failed anyone,’ he signed.

“I have,” Stiles argued. “I’m not strong enough to be the hero everyone thinks I am. I’m not strong enough to save the people I care about.”

‘Just because you have empathy, it does not make you weak,’ the Mute told him. ‘In fact, it makes you the strongest of us all. You are a hero.’

Stiles shook his head, hot tears welling in his eyes and blurring his vision. “A hero saves people.”

‘You have saved people,’ the Mute corrected. ‘You gave them hope.’

“And all that’s done is driven them to revolutions and death,” Stiles retorted.

‘But it has given them the strength to fight. They’re no longer blind to oppression and abuse; they see now because of you. Hope is the only thing stronger than fear, and by giving people hope you have liberated them.’

“And what if I don’t make it out of this arena?” Stiles asked.

‘Then you will be a martyr,’ the Mute replied. ‘Some heroes die, that’s the down side of being mortal, but their legends don’t die with them. As long as one person remembers you, your legacy will live on. You have saved a lot of people and that’s something you can’t deny.’

The sky lit up with the Capitol emblem, the blaring anthem silencing them.

The first image was the portrait of the tribute from District One, the one who had attacked them.

Slowly, that portrait faded and was replaced by the stunning image of Meredith.

Stiles rose to his feet, ignoring the rest of the anthem and the presentation as he stalked across the rocky paths and stormed into the cornucopia. He tossed about crates and scattered resources before pulling out a large cylindrical object. He lugged it with him as he made his way back to the beach and hurled it onto the shore. The thick coil of wire landed in the sand with a solid thud, drawing everyone’s attention.

The others looked from him to the coil, their faces twisted and creased in confusion.

“We end this,” Stiles announced. “Tonight.”


	20. Chapter 20

“I’m not sure I understand,” Corey said quietly, weaving his way through the greenery after Stiles. “How does this work?”

“Electricity runs along metal, like the District fences,” Stiles explained, holding the coiled wire and slowly unwinding it as they made their way uphill towards the tree. “And when metal meets the barrier it’s enough to break it for a moment like it did when Derek hit it with his axe, only this time instead of being electrocuted-”

Stiles’ voice faltered as the wire snagged on something, pulling him back slightly.

“Corey,” Stiles said quietly, his eyes focused on the shadows among the trees. “Take the coil and keep going.”

Corey exchanged the coil for the Stiles’ spear.

Stiles readied himself for a fight.

“Go,” Stiles whispered.

Corey hurried ahead.

Stiles tightened his grip on his spear.

His heart pounded against his chest. His breath howled in his hollow lungs as he glared at the approaching silhouette.

Donovan emerged, his face contorted and his lips twisted into a cynical smile.

Stiles stared him down.

Donovan lunged forward.

Stiles spun his spear around, smacking the side of the older boy’s face with the side of the pole.

Donovan stumbled slightly by quickly countered Stiles’ attack, holding his daggers like scythes and charging at the boy with a flurry of savage movements.

Stiles spun around, thumping the pole against the older boy’s wrist and disarming him. He stumbled slightly and Stiles swung again, knocking him off his feet and leaving him to tumble down the ridge.

Donovan bounced back quickly, leaping to his feet and chasing after Stiles.

The younger boy leapt up into a nearby tree, scurrying up the rough bark and reaching for the thick bough of a high branch.

Donovan grabbed his ankles, pulling the boy down from the tree.

Stiles yelped, thrashing about and kicking at Donovan’s hands but the Career refused to weaken his grip. Stiles’ free hand began to slip.

His spear fell from his other hand.

There was a strangled gargle beneath him.

Stiles’ grip gave way and he fell to the ground. He scurried among the detritus and towards a ridge. He bounced to his feet and turned back, shocked by the sight of the impaled corpse. Donovan’s body was arched back and resting on the spear with his arms hanging weak by his side.

A cannon fired overhead.

“Stiles!”

Mason’s screams echoed through the trees as his hurried footsteps sprinted over to the older boy’s side.

Stiles froze, his gaze stuck on Donovan’s lifeless corpse.

“Stiles,” Mason said, his voice full of panic as he tugged at Stiles’ hand. “We have to go.”

Stiles turned slowly, letting Mason lead the way up to the meeting point.

There was a gut-wrenching shrill whine of a blade being dragged across wire, followed by a snap as the wire fell limp on the ground.

“What was that?” Mason asked.

“It snapped,” Stiles announced.

“It doesn’t matter,” Mason said, the fear still thick in his voice.

“No, we need it grounded in the water and the wet sand, otherwise we won’t have enough voltage to counter it and it won’t work,” Stiles explained. “If it’s not grounded, it’ll fry us all.”

Mason thought about it quickly. “Alright, I’ll go fix it.”

“I’ll come with you,” Stiles offered.

“No,” Mason yelped. “No offence, but I’m faster and there’s no use in both of us getting caught. I’ll fix it and pluck it twice then make my way back to the meeting point, okay?”

Stiles let out a heavy sigh before he reluctantly agreed, “Fine, but be quick.”

Mason nodded and disappeared into the shadows of the night.

Stiles watched him go before he turned and begun to trudge uphill to the agreed-upon rendezvous point.

He stepped into the open space.

It was eerily quiet and still.

“Derek?” Stiles whispered. “Marin?”

“Stiles,” Marin called.

Stiles turned towards her voice, noticing her slender, blood-soaked figure arched over the Mute’s unconscious body.

“What happened?” Stiles asked, scurrying to her side.

“Desert Wolf,” Marin muttered. “She was here, waiting for us. Give me your arm.”

“What?”

“Give me your arm!” Marin snapped, grabbing the boy’s wrist. She turned his arm over and plunged her knife into the flesh.

She clamped her hand over Stiles’ mouth as he let out a scream of agony.

She dug her fingers into his arm and pulled out the small tracking device, tossing it into the dirt.

Tears welled in his eyes and blurred his vision as he tried to breathe deeply.

Marin’s grip weakened and she drew her hand away from his mouth.

Stiles didn’t scream. He heaved in heavy breaths, the air hissing through his gritted teeth. He doubled over in pain, cradling his arm to his chest and rocking back and forth.

Marin crawled back and slumped down against a nearby tree trunk.

Stiles turned to look at her.

She held out a bow for him.

“The bitch took my weapon, so I took hers,” Marin hissed through gritted teeth, her voice growing more raspy and weak as she talked.

Stiles glanced down, noticing the barrage of arrows that were buried in her side and her gut. Blood gushed from her wounds and soaked the torn fibres of her jumpsuit.

Marin coiled her fingers around the shaft of one of the arrows, tearing it from her gut. She bit into her lip to silence her screams, tears rolling down her cheeks.

“You’ve got one shot,” she panted, beads of sweat forming on her forehead as her eyes became unfocused and weary. “Make it a good one, kid.”

Stiles took the bow and the arrow from her.

“Hold on,” he pleaded. “Just a little longer.”

“I’ll try,” she promised.

Stiles nodded and ran towards the tree.

A figure burst through the bushes.

Stiles notched the bow and drew the string back, aiming the arrow at the newcomer.

Corey pulled up to a halt.

“Stiles,” he said, raising his hands defensively. “Remember who your friends are… and remember who the real enemy is.”

The clouds darkened as a storm brewed in the skies overhead, rumbling with thunder and glittering with eager sparks.

The low growl drew the boy’s eyes to the sky where the illusion of thick grey storm clouds spiralled across the holographic tiles of the arena roof, the outlines of the plates glittering as the lightning gathered.

He was running out of time.

“Stiles, get away from that tree,” Corey warned.

Stiles lowered the bow and turned around.

The Mute had done his job and had coiled the thick wire around the trunk of the tree and through the branches, leaving a long length of wire free.

Stiles grabbed the end of the copper wire and wound it tightly around the shaft of the blood-soaked arrow.

He notched it again and lifted the bow.

“Come on, Mason,” he muttered under his breath. “Come on.”

“Stiles, get away from that tree!” Corey shouted over the brewing storm.

There was a low, quiet strum, a musical note that left the vibrations shaking the string and was quickly followed by a second.

Stiles pulled the string taut and aimed for the sky.

“Stiles!” Corey howled, racing forward.

There was a loud crack as the lightning stuck the tree.

The force blew Corey back, his limp body hitting the ground with a loud thud.

The electricity soared through Stiles’ body and ignited his blood.

He opened his mouth to scream, but he heard no sound. He felt his lungs burn and tears fall from his eyes as he released his fingers and let the arrow fly.

He heard his breath leave his lungs as he collapsed to the ground.

The arrow struck the roof of the arena, erupting into sparks that rained down around them, igniting patches of leaves that littered the ground.

The sparks dwindled and faded into the distance.

The illusion of a night sky was gone, leaving the arena in complete darkness.

High above him, a patch of sky broke away. A silvery beam of daylight that filtered into the arena, bathing his numb, unmoving, body in its glow.

Support beams toppled the trees as they fell and metal sheets hit the ground with heavy thundering booms. Gusts of wind stirred up the carcases of leaves, their dry bodies fluttering about and brushed across his face and his limbs. Chunks of debris fell to the ground to reveal the bright blue sky beyond their cage. The earth erupted, showering him in dirt, leaves and plant matter. The detritus rained around him.

He heard the hollow wisps of his own breath fill his lungs before rolling past his lips again.

He swore he heard his own voice, the words he had said to Hayden, “One day the heavens are going to get too heavy with all of the innocent people who are up there … One day, the sky’s going to fall down around us.”

His head lulled to the side.

The crackling fire warmed his skin as his eyes fell shut for a second.

He struggled to open them again, looking into the familiar warmth of glittering chestnut eyes.

“Did you stay awake all night, Mischief?” his mother cooed, too honoured by his loving gesture and dedication to scold him for his lack of self-care.

He remembered saying, “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

She smiled sweetly at him, her pale skin lit by the orange glow of the morning light.

“I’m okay,” she assured him. “Why don’t you get some sleep now?”

“But I have to stay up with you,” he replied weakly.

“It’s okay, sweetie,” she whispered, reaching across to stroke the boy’s pale cheek. “You can sleep now.”

Stiles’ heavy eyes fell shut for a second.

He rolled his head back again and opened his eyes, staring up at the sky.

A dark silhouette was cast across him as a carrier flew down into the arena, hovering above him.

He couldn’t hear the engines, but he could feel the cold rush of wind that the turbines stirred up.

A large claw dropped from the underside, swaying slightly as it lowered towards him. The metal talons opened and slid beneath his numb body.

 _Run_ , his mind screamed, but his body refused. _Get up and run!_

His body was hoisted off the ground and lifted towards the hollow hull of the ship.

He felt a heavy breath fall past his lips as his head fell backwards and his eyes fluttered shut.

The world was silent as the dark abyss of nothingness consumed him.


	21. Chapter 21

Stiles woke with a start, his eyes flying open as he gasped for air.

His breath steamed before his eyes as it struck the thin plastic oxygen mask that was secured over his face. He lifted his hand, weakly tapping at it with his numb fingers. He gripped the smooth plastic and pulled it away from his face, sliding the mask off his head.

He felt his arm throb, his muscles burning as they moved beneath the tight bandage.

He looked about the cold grey metal hull of the craft. His eyes focused on the figure beside him.

“Mute?” Stiles rasped.

The man stirred, his dark eyes unfocused as he met the boy’s gaze.

Stiles lifted his shaky hands and signed, ‘Are you alright?’

The Mute slowly nodded his head.

Stiles sat up slowly, his attention drawn to the hushed voices that were muffled by the door to the next cabin.

Stiles turned to face the Mute, motioning for him to stay quiet.

The man nodded again.

Stiles slowly rose to feet, taking a second to steady himself before taking a step forward. He shuffled over towards a large black case full of medical supplies. He reached inside and pulled out a small silver scalpel. He pulled it free of the preserved packet and tightened his grip on it, readying it like a knife.

He took one step after the other, making his way over to the dividing door.

The muffled voices grew louder, but he still couldn’t make out anything they were saying.

He pushed his hand against the clouded glass and slid open the door.

The pistons hissed as it revealed the room.

“Just tell him,” he heard Scott finish.

All eyes turned to him.

“Hey, kiddo,” his father whispered softly, smiling at the boy.

“Dad?” Stiles rasped.

“You’re awake?” Scott said with a sigh of relief.

“Where am I?” Stiles asked, looking about at the others around the table.

Scott stood closest to him and Chris was on the other side of the table. His father stood at the far end of the table and Peter stood across from him, his steely blue eyes focused on a large map spread across the tabletop.

“You’re in a plane that’s flying over the Districts,” Christ explained, keeping his voice low and calm.

“I’m sorry, we couldn’t tell you,” Peter apologised.

“Tell me what?” Stiles croaked, looking about the room.

“Stiles, before you react, just hear them out,” Scott bargained. “Please.”

“There was a plan, but none of us could tell you because Deucalion was keeping such a close eye on you,” Peter explained. “Half the tributes were in on it. This is the revolution and you are the spark. We had to get you out of there and somewhere Deucalion couldn’t touch you.”

“Where are we going?” Stiles pressed, suspicious of their ambiguity.

There was a moment of silence as the men exchanged glances.

“Thirteen,” Scott answered. “We’re going to District Thirteen.”

“Thirteen was destroyed,” Stiles said innocently, his face creased with confusion.

“It was bombed, but not destroyed,” Scott explained.

“More importantly, why aren’t we going to Twelve?”

There was another moment of silence, this one heavier and more tense than the last.

“Why aren’t we going to Twelve?” Stiles repeated.

Chris drew in a deep breath and answered honestly, “Twelve was bombed.”

Stiles felt his heart sink into his gut as his heart pounded against his ribcage. His lips quivered breathlessly as his legs weakened from beneath him and he collapsed back against the doorframe.

“Stiles,” Scott whispered, rushing to his side.

“Derek,” Stiles muttered.

“Stiles, calm down,” Scott encouraged.

“Derek,” Stiles repeated. “Where’s Derek?”

“He’s alive,” Peter assured him. “His tracker is still activated. Marin cut yours out.”

“Where is he?” Stiles said lowly, glaring at Peter.

John let out a defeated sigh. “He’s in the Capitol.”

“They got him and Mason,” Peter confessed.

Stiles felt sick, hot tears weighing down his eyelashes. “You left him behind?”

“We didn’t have a choice,” Peter argued. “You were our priority. They got to him before we could.”

“We have to go back for him,” Stiles growled.

“We can’t,” Peter replied bluntly.

“You son of a bitch!” Stiles howled. “You promised!”

Stiles lunged forward, brandishing the scalpel like a knife as he charged at Peter.

Chris leapt into action, grabbing the boy by the waist as Peter caught Stiles’ wrists.

Peter tried to dodge Stiles’ violent movements, leaning back in an attempt to keep the razor sharp blade away from his face.

“You promised you’d keep him safe. You promised you’d choose him over me. You lied!” Stiles shrieked, flailing about in Chris’ strong hold. He kicked his legs and thrashed about, desperate to break free, to get his hands on Peter.

Scott raced into the other room and rifled through the case of medical supplies. He returned with a needle full of clear liquid. He was quick and precise, jabbing Stiles’ bicep with the needle and pushing down on the plunger.

Stiles’ movements became lethargic as he began to weaken in Chris’ arms.

“You’re a liar,” he croaked, glaring at Peter. “You’re a liar!”

The scalpel fell from his hold, clattering across the metal plating of the floor.

Peter released his grip on the boy’s wrists letting Stiles’ frail arms fall to his sides.

Glistening tears caressed Stiles’ pale cheeks as he fell back into Chris’ arms.

“You promised,” Stiles muttered weakly. “You… promised…”

Chris carefully lowered Stiles down onto the ground, setting the boy down in his lap before cautiously releasing him and laying him down on the floor.

The boy’s dark eyes fluttered slightly as they fell shut, his trembling lips moving around a soft whisper, “Derek.”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, the final chapter!  
> But don't worry, the adventure continues in 'Revolution'.

**Author's Note:**

> celestialvoid-fanfiction.tumblr.com


End file.
